


The Fourth Test: Caught Up in Confusion and Skin

by kutubiyya



Series: An Indian Summer [4]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Consensual Kink, Gags, M/M, Showers, Smut, a lot of it, basically just gratuitous really, gratuitous shower scene, gratuitous wet shirt moment, moping, the plot kinda required it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They have an unspoken pact: that this thing between them is nothing serious, because there’s too much at stake for it to be serious. It’s too important for it to </i>be<i> important. As it were.</i></p><p><i>But. Well. You don’t really go around buying jewellery for a teammate you’re shagging unless somewhere, deep down, secretly, guiltily, it </i>is<i> important. Do you?</i></p><p>--</p><p>If they're honest, neither Jimmy nor Alastair thought Jimmy would make it to the Fourth Test. If they'd known the ICC was going to clear him of the misconduct charge, they might have done things a little differently at the end of the Third. What happens when you assumed something was going to end, and it hasn't? How do you go from an emotionally complicated farewell to working together again, a handful of days later? (Manchester, August 2014)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For any smuthounds who are here through tags and want to bypass the slow-burn angst: turn to chapter 3 :)
> 
> For anyone unfamiliar with cricket or otherwise not 100% sure what these guys look like: here are [Alastair (left), Jimmy (centre), and Broady (right)](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/130143747302). You're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [plumjaffas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/piranhafish/pseuds/piranhafish) for reading this first chapter through for me <3
> 
> This was posted late at night after several glasses of wine, so hasn't been properly proofread; please do point out typos and/or broken html tags :)

_You are the fire in my spine_  
_Leave no shadow, burning up my sorrow_  
_You are this melody I can’t get out_  
_Caught in my ribcage, turning me inside out_  
\--Gemma Hayes, ‘Fire’  
([listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOmBa9zJs0A))

\--

It isn’t planned. None of it is.

Alastair will think about this, later, alone in his hotel room for the second night in a row. He’ll stare at the ceiling and wonder how he got himself into this situation; how he can get out of it.

But he’ll also be trying to convince himself that it’s for the best.

It starts – if _starts_ is the right word – in the dressing room at Old Trafford, where they’re all getting ready for the first training session. Alastair’s wary; has been since he arrived in Manchester, late last night. He can’t bring himself to even look over in Jimmy’s direction, afraid of what he’ll see if he catches the other man’s eye.

He can’t stop thinking about his stupid mistake at the end of the last Test: what on _earth_ (he’s wondered, many times, over the past three or four days) possessed him to give Jimmy those bloody cufflinks?

They were a gift that gave the game away; a gift that had come to mean something more, by then, than he’d ever intended. When he commissioned them, the other significance of the inscription – IX, for nine o’clock – really _had_ just been a sort of inside joke. But the more he came to realise what was happening in his head – or wherever it is that this stuff happens – the more he began to have second thoughts.

They have an unspoken pact: that this thing between them is nothing serious, because there’s too much at stake for it to be serious. It’s too important for it to _be_ important. As it were. But. Well. You don’t really go around buying jewellery for a teammate you’re shagging unless somewhere, deep down, secretly, guiltily, it _is_ important. Do you?

Okay, so maybe he’d been in too deep for longer than he thought. Either way, it didn’t have to be the end of the world; it wasn’t the first time he’d got a bit over-invested in someone, although it was the first time with actual sex involved, as opposed to awkward pining from a distance.

But then, when he’d more or less persuaded himself not to give Jimmy the cufflinks – to maybe have them melted down and turned into some sort of bracelet of silent atonement for his wife, instead – Jimmy only went and _found_ the wretched things. And even then it would’ve been fine, could’ve been fine - they were still wrapped, still deniable - if Alastair, lying there in bed watching Jimmy’s skin disappearing under his clothes the next morning, hadn’t had a last-minute attack of _what if I never see him again?_

Which was comfortably the stupidest bit of the whole affair, because Jimmy was only facing a possible suspension. The ICC can be ruthless, but they’ve yet to adopt, say, execution as a method of preserving the spirit of cricket. There are plenty of matches still to come this summer; Jimmy probably wouldn’t even have missed the whole ODI series.

In short, there was absolutely no good reason for Alastair to give Jimmy the cufflinks, and every reason in the world not to. He’d told himself this. He’d _agreed_ with himself. He was all set to be sensible, to play it cool, to let Jimmy go and concentrate on the hearing without such unnecessary complication and distraction as finding out that his captain couldn’t handle the _casual_ bit in _casual sex_ , and had instead developed a massively inappropriate crush on him. But oh, no: stupid Alastair with his stupid fluttery chest (heart?) decided that he couldn’t bear to let Jimmy leave without a stupid token of his _stupid_ —

Alastair realises, abruptly, that the room’s emptying around him. Alarmed, he scrambles into belated action, strapping on a thigh pad, swapping his own t-shirt for the dark blue and white of the training kit, trying not to wonder if Jimmy’s somewhere behind him, watching. Alastair can’t deal with the thought of other man’s gaze just now; then again, he can’t deal with the lack of it, either, because that will mean he really has scared Jimmy off, with that stupid, _stupid_ gesture that Jimmy quite rightly rejected, while Alastair wished he could sink into the _floor_ —

 _Shut up_ , he tells himself. _Calm down. Focus. Job to do._

He manages to just about sort himself out as the last of the group disappears out of the door.

Not quite the last. As Alastair makes to follow them out, he feels a tug on the back of his shirt. Absently, he pulls against it, but there’s no give; he’s being held there.

Three guesses, and the first two don’t count.

Alastair freezes, says nothing, waits until the others are out of earshot. One question, at least, is answered: Jimmy _was_ watching him. But as he racks his brain for how to begin – how to say what he needs to say, without saying too much, how to explain away the cufflinks – he feels breath on his neck and warm hands sliding around his hips. The hands don’t stop there, as he expects them to; they keep moving, until there are arms wrapped around him, pulling him back into the solid bulk of the man behind him. Holding him firmly, in a way that admits no argument.

There are lips, gentle, at the side of his neck, and _bloody hell_ the fluttering is back in his chest like it’s never gone away and how could he think he’s adjusted to this, that he can hide it, that he can control himself, now he knows the risks, now he’s made the mistake once and vowed not to repeat it…?

Not even close. He needs to do something. He needs to get out of this.

He turns in the tight circle of Jimmy’s arms, draws a breath to say something, anything, and Jimmy gives him no chance; the other man’s lips are on Alastair’s before he can formulate a word, let alone a sentence. He can feel his own desperation and need in the way he responds: the way he opens his mouth, how hard he presses in, the noise of helpless surrender in his throat.

When he eventually manages to wrench himself away – still held, though, still that – his lips are wet and his chest is rising and falling against Jimmy’s.

He blurts the first thing that comes into his head. An important thing, as it happens, or edging towards something important. “We haven’t even said hello, yet.”

Jimmy’s lips quirk. “Hello,” he says, without meeting Alastair’s gaze, as he closes in again. His tongue slides between Alastair’s lips, taking up possession of his mouth, curling around the words he might have said, persuading them to give in.

At first, Alastair’s relieved. Maybe he’s got away with it, maybe they’ll never mention it ever again, maybe the whole thing can just sort of fade into face-saving silence. But no. It’ll nag at him if he doesn’t deal with it; it’ll haunt him, knowing that he freaked Jimmy out that morning, came on too strong, and never tried to explain himself. He pulls his head away again, wrestling to get one hand against Jimmy’s collar bone, to hold him back, for a moment.

“About… about the other morning…”

He feels rather than sees Jimmy’s shrug. “Forget about it.”

And Alastair realises he’s been wrong; it _can_ be worse, actually, than the embarrassment he’s been carrying around like a stone in his belly since that morning. Not talking about it at all, that’s worse. He can’t stand the thought of _that_ moment lurking under everything they say and do, that it could emerge again one day without warning and send Jimmy careening away from him.

And yet, he lets his hand drop. And yet, he lets Jimmy go back to work.

He _has_ to say something; can’t find the words. Fingers twine in Alastair’s hair; lips and teeth drag along his jaw. He can’t breathe. Doesn’t _want_ to find the words, his throat abruptly paralysed with the fear of damaging things further, whatever he does. What if this is it, as soon as he speaks? No more kisses on the back of his neck, no more hands and voice taking charge, no more hard body pressed against his, holding him down. What if talking about it poisons things, what if he alienates his best bowler, what if they can’t work together anymore, what if everyone wonders why they’ve fallen out, what if anyone _finds out_ why they’ve fallen out, what if he loses his best friend in the team—

_shut up shut up shut up you utter fool_

Here he is, again, babbling; even in his own head. So many thoughts he can’t hold them all in. He wants to yell his frustration and confusion into the other man’s skin. He wants to let Jimmy sweep these things away in the certainty of heat and need and restraint.

“Usual time tonight,” says Jimmy, not quite a question – and Alastair will decide, afterwards, that it was the phrasing that did it. The echo – maybe deliberate, maybe not – of the inscription on the cufflinks.

( _Nine o’clock. A reminder, of the fun we had._ His own voice, giving the lie to his words.)

He hears himself refuse.

“No,” he says, then immediately softens it with a lie: “I’ve got… things to do. Meetings. Until. Until late.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s late. I can stop by whenever. We can always get down to business a bit faster—”

“ _No_.” Jimmy must be able to hear, surely, the way Alastair’s voice shakes, the lack of conviction in it? “I’m, uh… I’m not— Not tonight.”

It wouldn’t take much, he knows, to persuade him; to keep him there. But when Alastair pushes, numbly and urgently, against Jimmy’s arms, they let him go.

\--

So: how _did_ he get into this situation? How did he end up running away from Jimmy, rather than talking to him?

This is the central thread of Alastair’s thoughts, later that night. He’s retracing his steps; working out what happened. He’s trying to decide where and when he made the decisions – because this anxiety, this avoidance, didn’t start this afternoon, clearly – that have led to him lying on his back, phone in hand, watching a cobweb up above him as it sways in unseen air currents, casting a long shadow across the white paint of the ceiling.

He’s teetering on the brink of giving in, of texting Jimmy, of _sod the consequences_. (Although he’s hazy on details: consequences of what? Talking, or not talking?)

Over the next few hours, he won’t just think about all this: he’ll _brood_ , like Jimmy would.

Or like Jimmy _might_ be doing, if the thought of any of this has even crossed his mind. Maybe it hasn’t. Alastair doesn’t know either way. This is part of what’s holding him back.

Only part, though.

\--

All the long drive up to Manchester, and throughout a restless first night in this hotel, Alastair was harbouring an embarrassed dread of having to dredge up what happened back in Southampton. But he knew it had to happen eventually, if he was ever going to clear the air; he had to convince Jimmy, and himself, that it hadn’t been a big deal, that it hadn’t meant anything, that they could go back to the status quo of stress-relieving sexytimes without any complications.

Yet he’s been avoiding the subject, and any chance to raise the subject, like a pro; he can see that now, looking back. The morning after he arrived, he hit the hotel gym about two minutes after it opened, and had it all to himself – which is to say, with no teammates in it, just a handful of other hotel guests – until Jos showed up two hours later. He exchanged smiles and nods with the wicketkeeper, and went straight from the gym to a breakfast meeting with Pete, at which their table was so full of laptops and piles of paper that there was no room for anyone else.

It was helpful to be able to tell himself this – that there was no room – when Jimmy sauntered in late to the dining room, glanced around, and walked right past Alastair to join Chris and CJ and Mo, without even a nod.

In truth, though, Alastair was avoiding Jimmy even before that. It started the night he arrived in Manchester. He was unlocking the door to his new room, fumbling with the key – he’d got used to keycards over the long summer, and the chunky plastic tag attached to this key, not far off the size and shape of a hardback book, somehow contrived to keep getting in his way – when he heard a door open further up the corridor, and voices drifting out. Broady and Jimmy.

And Alastair didn’t wait to greet them. He didn’t wave, call hello, or stand in the corridor, leaning on his wheeled suitcase, with a smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye. He did smile, of course – at the sound of Jimmy’s voice, even discussing golf handicaps, how could he not? – but he also, abruptly, panicked. In a completely controlled and mature and sensible sort of way. He scrabbled his key into the lock and shoved his way through the suddenly open door with all the force his shoulder could offer, dragging his suitcase in behind him so quickly that it slammed into his calves, making him stumble forward, which in turn pulled the kitbag on his other shoulder over to the left, sending him staggering crabwise into the room as the door slammed shut behind him.

Feeling exceptionally silly, Alastair fought for balance, letting go of the case and dropping the kitbag in a belated manoeuvre that only _slightly_ wrenched his shoulder.

Rubbing briskly at what was probably going to turn into a bruise on his calf, Alastair didn’t waste time wondering why he’d just done all that. He knew the answer well enough. Instead, he spun round and pressed himself against the door, staring through the peephole and trying to ignore his pounding heartbeat as he watched and listened for any signal that the men outside had noticed his little episode.

He was swiftly reassured. Sort of.

“…Cooky arrived yet?” Broady’s voice was startlingly loud as he strode into the wide-angle view from the peephole. He was nearest the door; Jimmy was flanking him on his left.

Jimmy shrugged, which might not have meant anything – Jimmy shrugged all the time, after all – but Alastair couldn’t help turning it over and over in his mind, afterwards.

“Not a clue,” said Jimmy, abruptly, gruffly; disinterestedly? Alastair couldn’t see him properly – he was largely obscured by Broady, and already almost past the door – but what was visible of his face looked to be set in a grimace.

Something inside Alastair shrivelled. He bit his lip. He knew it. He _knew_ it. He’d wrecked things. Of all the stupid ideas he’d had in his life, those cufflinks were top five, easily.

Outside, Broady snorted. “Yeah, right. Just let him know I want a chat when he’s got a minute, okay?”

Alastair didn’t hear Jimmy’s reply. If he replied.

So that put Alastair on his guard; _lucky escape_ , he thought. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to avoid the other man for the rest of the week, but maybe there was no need to rush into anything, especially not in front of the others. He would talk to Jimmy, but all in good time. He’d spent enough time strategizing about this between the two Tests: how to act, how to explain, how to diffuse, how to dissemble. He knew what needed to be done.

Surely it couldn’t be that hard, he told himself, to have a conversation with Jimmy?

\--

 _Oh, but it could_ , Alastair thinks, now, pushing himself up from the bed and wandering over to a window. _It can_.

He knows this better than most, he reflects, as he draws back the curtains and squashes his forearms onto the narrow windowsill.

Beyond the glass, Manchester is a hive of activity. The narrow streets down below are crawling with cars, even at this time of night; they’re hemmed in on all sides by tall, Victorian edifices, densely packed testament to the city’s industrial past. Alastair doesn’t know what any of the buildings are – he’d like to ask Jimmy, but, well – except that the one they’re in was the Free Trade Hall before it was a hotel. A couple of miles south-west, somewhere to the right of his view from this window, lies Old Trafford.

He learned last night that just as the city centre never quite sleeps, nor does it ever seem to get fully dark; it’s soaked in an orange glow that must come from street lights, although it’s hard to imagine how the handful of lamps he can see could light up the sky so thoroughly, making the clouds look like the sooty, glowing smoke of a furnace. Despite all his years of travelling, he can never quite get used to this sort of environment – he still feels most at home with a darker sky, and fields, with quiet and stars – but there’s something appealing about it all, this evening. It makes him feel comfortingly anonymous, just an ordinary man looking down on the crowds leaving the theatre, or shuttling between bars.

Up here, no-one knows what he’s thinking. Up here, no-one’s asking anything of him. Up here, the world is just images; there are no words.

Words are hard. Words are elusive, slippery, punishing. They trip up his tongue when he speaks, they scamper away from his thoughts. Sometimes it feels like he spends half his life preparing his words: shepherding them, cajoling them, trying to get them to march along in an order that makes sense outside of his own head. He plans and rehearses responses for interviews like they’re lines he’s learning for a play, or deliveries he’s facing at the crease. There are only so many ways a ball can come down the pitch at you, most of the time, and there are only so many things Michael Atherton or Jonathan Agnew can possibly ask when they’ve put a microphone in your hand. Most bowlers give away hints of what they’re about to do from the way they grip the ball, or the angle of their run-up; interviewers, too, tell you what they’re looking for in the way they frame the question. Athers, in particular, asks questions in paragraphs, guiding you towards an answer that suits the narrative that the commentators and pundits have already honed over a day or a match of rumination.

_Do you think that the reason you’ve taken more wickets here is that your seamers have been bowling fuller and straighter than they were in the previous match? Would you agree that your middle order has batted with greater freedom since you pushed Ian Bell down the order, or promoted Joe Root, or brought in Gary Ballance?_

_Yeah, definitely; here’s a soundbite I prepared earlier, on just that very topic._

Sometimes he wishes you could talk to people at the pace he normally bats: that you could take your time, safely ignore every conversational delivery wide of off-stump ( _how do I feel about losing this match? what do you think?_ ), wander off to stretch your legs or do a bit of gardening between sentences, and then pounce on the occasional short ball ( _I recognise this one; it’s safe, I know what to do with it_ ). He needs time and space, when there’s no pressure on him to perform: to pin words down, to examine them, to get to know the shape of them.

You can’t do that with real conversations, though. He can’t do that with Jimmy, tonight or any other night. Jimmy doesn’t give him time.

\--

Of course, sometimes you can have plenty of time, and it’s still not enough. Like the day of Jimmy’s hearing before the ICC, for example. 

Alastair had hung around in Southampton for as long as he could, that day, dawdling over packing and logistics and anything else he could think of, until eventually the powers that be made it clear to him that they wanted him as far away as possible from the whole thing, in case the verdict went against Jimmy.

So he drove the two hours back to Bedfordshire, taking some comfort in the routinely familiar tasks of changing gears and changing lanes, in the chance to lose himself in motor skills and muscle memory instead of press conferences and photo calls. But the humiliating sting of his mistake, that morning, only got worse as the hours passed – and the closer he got to home, the harder it became to not think about what was going on in that video conference.

Eventually – knowing he couldn’t go home until he’d calmed down a bit – he parked his car in a layby on the outskirts of his in-laws’ farm. He opened the boot, dug in his kitbag, and swapped his shoes for a pair of trainers. He knew they probably looked ridiculous, paired with his tailored trousers and formal shirt – for all that the shirt was unbuttoned past his collar bone and its sleeves were rolled up to his elbows – and before he could stop himself, he was picturing Jimmy’s reaction to this get-up: the head tilt, the half-smile thinning his lips, the single raised eyebrow. He imagined the other man there, leaning against the side of the car; imagined himself closing the gap between them, pressing his mouth to those smirking lips to shut up him up; imagined firm hands coming round behind him, fingers splaying across his backside, digging into him, pulling him in tight.

He took a deep breath and slammed the boot shut, to jolt himself out of it. Then he climbed the fence into the hilly pasture beyond, took a second deep breath – this time to enjoy the warm air and the scent of summer – and set off over the uneven ground that he knew so well. The cows had cropped the grass short and the sun had baked the soil firm, and it felt so good to be out of the car. He followed the narrow sheep track – force of habit, not necessity – where it trailed along the edge of a small ridge, then picked his way down into a hollow that he knew of old, with its stunted, storm-damaged oak tree and the concealment it offered from road and farmhouse and nearby fields alike. This last had always been its appeal, in all the years he’d been coming here.

He flopped down at the base of the tree, in the space between two thick roots that was still just wide enough to fit him, snugly, and rubbed his palms over the ridged bark to either side of him. The root to his left bore a carving, low down, not obvious unless you knew it was there; he found it by touch, traced the uneven lines of it. An ‘A’, although you might not have known that, unless you were the one who’d done it. He’d started it one morning, more than ten years ago, intending to carve his initials – to leave a marker of himself in this place that had so often been a haven for him – then abandoned it partway through, feeling guilty at defacing the tree. He’d finished it a couple of years later, the evening Alice had agreed to marry him – but _finished_ is the wrong word, because he’d meant to turn it into his future wife’s name, and something had stopped him. A desire to keep this place just for himself. Something private, in a life that promised little privacy, ahead, if his career took off as many suggested it would.

He wondered, sitting there on the afternoon after the Third Test, if that desire had been the first warning sign, of something selfish in him, something resistant to commitment, even then. If his unfaithfulness was foreseeable, inevitable, the result of some flaw in him. If it was only a matter of time until he developed feelings for someone else.

\--

 _Feelings_ , Alastair thinks now, in his silent hotel room. _Such a… fuzzy word_. Fuzzy in the sense of indistinct, imprecise; but also fuzzy like a kitten is fuzzy, or a teddy bear. It’s cute, somehow, like he’s a twelve-year-old with a crush. The vagueness part, at least, is sort of apt for Jimmy – the man of understatement and reserve, carefully controlled, hard to read – but Alastair has met few men less suited to cuteness. He needs to unpick those _feelings_ , turn them into something clearer, something that makes sense, something as solid as the tree trunk at his back was, back home on the farm.

But then again. _Feeling_ , too, has more than one meaning. Physical and emotional. When he’s with Jimmy, he _feels_ fingertips on his skin, he feels a mouth over his, he feels sheets against his back; he feels the something grow in his gut that’s like heat and like hunger and like neither of these things. But he also _feels_ a lift in his spirits whenever he catches Jimmy’s eye, and an uncontrollable urge to smile when he thinks about him.

Yet beyond all of that, he realises, the emotions _are_ physical: they resonate in his blood and his skin. Sensation generates emotion, a feedback loop of feeling piling on feeling, until he can’t pull the two strands apart, and doesn’t want to. The way his throat tightens when he hears Jimmy’s voice; how he flushes, both turned on and tender, when Jimmy says _I’ve got you_ ; the excitement that builds in his belly in that half an hour or so before their evening encounters, formed of lust and happiness both. The fluttering in his chest, like there’s a bird in there along with his heart and lungs.

The sex is not just sex; maybe it never was, but especially not now it has become a drama, a dance, an elaborate trust exercise, a thing they create together in give and take, in dominance and submission. They have desires and needs that complement each other; Jimmy answers questions Alastair didn’t even know he had. How could he _not_ care for this other man, who makes him feel so desired, who makes him feel so safe even as he’s unmaking and remaking his world?

It has been a savagely, extravagantly horrible six, seven, eight months, under almost intolerable pressure from all sides, including the self-doubt within. Jimmy has become how he copes; Jimmy has become his safety valve. To be constricted, to be commanded, to be helpless: these things bring quiet to his mind. And it’s natural, surely, that gratitude and satisfaction could become something else.

He knows that Jimmy doesn’t feel this; that they’ll never holds hands on a beach or kiss the tip of each other’s noses in the cold or send each other cutesy Valentine’s cards or any of the other things you’re supposed to want. This is fine. Jimmy cares in a different way: Alastair feels it in the hands that steady and caress him, hears it in the voice that, over and over again, seeks permission and reassurance ( _are you okay can I carry on does that feel good_ ).

And yet. And yet he pushed. Maybe he’s pushed too far. Maybe he’s pushed him away.

Maybe, deep down, he wanted to push him away.

\--

He’d been home for three hours or so, terminally distracted but pretending not to be, when his phone buzzed from his pocket. He didn’t even look at it; he muttered his excuses and fled to an upstairs bathroom, keen for somewhere private, somewhere he could react however he needed to.

He perched on the cold porcelain edge of the bath, one hand clutching at the sink for support, and swiped his thumb across the screen. It was a text from Jimmy, as he’d somehow known, and it read, simply, _Cleared_.

Alastair let his phone drop to the bathmat, and slumped forward, bracing his elbows against his thighs. He held his hands, steepled, against his mouth, closed his eyes, and let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

He spent twenty minutes trying to formulate a response. He toyed with the idea of calling, instead, but even if he hadn’t still been cringing inside over the way they’d parted that morning, the prospect of listening to himself stumble through a monologue in the key of _um_ , struggling to say what he meant – or, worse still, actually _succeeding_ at saying what he meant, saying the stuff he _meant_ but didn’t mean _to say_ , what he _felt_ —

No. _No._ Absolutely not.

He eventually settled on a blandly safe _Glad to hear it_ , as his stomach churned, and he finally let himself examine the contours of the idea that had been lurking at the edge of his mind since the start of the Test just gone.

What if Jimmy _had_ been suspended for a few matches? What if he’d been suspended, and it had made things _easier_?

If Jimmy had been suspended, maybe Alastair could have concentrated on what Pete had to say when he phoned, a little later, to break the news he had no way of knowing Alastair already knew. Maybe he would have gone straight downstairs afterwards, or at least shouted down to tell Alice to ignore the landline for the evening. When he’d finished talking to Pete, he found he had seven voicemails from journalists seeking comment, and half a dozen new text messages – four from different journalists, plus a row of smiley faces from Joe and _Call me if you need to chat_ from Broady.

If Jimmy had been suspended, maybe Alastair wouldn’t have stayed sitting in the bathroom with his head in his hands, wondering whether it meant anything that Jimmy’s message had reached him so far ahead of official channels, whether the other man had reached for his phone as soon as the verdict was handed down. Whether he’d told anyone else first.

If Jimmy had been suspended, maybe Alastair could have used the enforced separation to haul himself back onto an even keel. To get over the feelings that he never asked for, that he can’t deny, that he came dangerously close to revealing in the contents of an innocuous little grey-blue box, that morning.

The feelings that aren’t returned. As he’s known, without a doubt if not in so many words, ever since this began – and as was confirmed, that morning, when he felt a consoling arm around him, that same box back in his own hand, and a kindly but careful voice distancing itself from him: _Take care, Cooky_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is another line from the same Gemma Hayes song ("My love, what a mess we're in/Caught up in confusion and skin"). I like it, but it doesn't feel quite right for Jimmy and Cooky - thematically yes, phrasing less so. Although it was either that or, 'It's Complicated', because my brain power has run out for this week. Anyway, I may well change it when a better idea occurs...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter were inspired by [this video](http://www.espncricinfo.com/ci/content/video_audio/767475.html), which was released the day before the Test started (August 6th), but I'm assuming was filmed the day before that (August 5th).

In the annals of Worst Possible Days To Have A Camera Following You Around During Training, today would have to rank pretty high. In Jimmy’s considered, and fairly experienced, opinion.

Not that there are any _good_ days for this sort of thing, he reflects, as he trudges across the Old Trafford outfield. He’s used to having lenses pointed at him while he’s training, they all are, but when you know it’s specific to you – here’s Jimmy walking to the nets! here’s Jimmy walking away from the nets! here’s Jimmy looking at the pavilion! here’s Jimmy rubbing his nose! – it’s much more difficult to concentrate on what you’re supposed to be doing.

But today has an extra _special_ level of awkwardness to it. It is, after all, less than a week since he got cleared of the misconduct charge, via a six-hour trial in which he had to admit he’d been a complete shit, only not _quite_ enough of a shit to actually get banned. (Or something.) Whenever he thinks about this, his mind itches with annoyance, coiled and waiting to lash out at anything and anyone that gets in range. He’s hurting, humiliated, and all too aware it’s eighty percent his own fault: a long way from the ideal mood, in other words, for meeting sponsors and smiling for a camera.

He can think of a few things that might take the edge off his tension, but it seems that’s not an option; Ali gave him the brush-off yesterday, and has spent today doing a very convincing impression of someone who’s avoiding him. Jimmy’s not sure why, and it’s not like he can just go and talk to him because _bloody camera_.

Just as he’s having that thought, one of the tech guys comes jogging over. Apparently the light’s not great (surprise), so they want to do a couple of pick-ups to make sure they have everything they need. Would Jimmy mind just walking across the outfield one more time…?

Jimmy _would_ mind, but he tries not to let it show too much; they’re only doing their job. (As is he.) Still, as he walks back to his imaginary mark, he glares at the Manchester sky, zips up his tracksuit top, and ducks his chin behind the collar to hide as much of his scowl as possible from the camera.

The sky is heavy with grey clouds, of course, like it’s in cahoots with the Yorkie boys, who’ve been mocking him since they arrived. ( _Can’t wait to see what balmy delights the Manchester climate has in store for us_ ; ha bloody ha, Joe, you get more hilarious with each passing day.) Some bright spark even looked up the Spanish word for ‘rain’, and now they’re all going round smirking about Salford Quays being the Costa del Lluvia. It wouldn’t be funny anyway, but not a single one of them can speak a syllable of Spanish, so it’s even worse.

(Jimmy can’t, either. This is beside the point.)

So this is what he’s dealing with: shit weather, Yorkshire humour, a camera crew tracking his every move, and unexplained (though maybe not inexplicable) awkwardness with Ali.

He doesn’t even know why he’s so bothered by the thing with Ali. It all got a bit intense down there in Southampton, with the whiskey and the dancing and the sleepover and the birthday present, but that, obviously, was a one-off. He’s been thinking (ever since he learned that he _would_ be coming back to the team, contrary to all expectation) that he should scale things back a bit, to make sure Southampton remains a one-off. In fact, the sensible thing to do – the _right_ thing to do – would be for both of them to keep their hands to themselves during this Test. Especially with it being in Manchester and everything. Jimmy’s going to have friends and family down throughout the match; he’ll be meeting up with people in the evenings. Now that he thinks about it, he decides that that’s probably what was going through Ali’s mind, yesterday, when he all but pulled out _I’m washing my hair_ as an excuse to get out of an evening with Jimmy. Carrying on this affair in Jimmy’s own backyard feels like it’d be a different order of deceit.

And that’s fine. It’s completely fine. Sensible. He just wishes Ali had given him some warning, really. That’s all. That’s the only reason he’s out of sorts over it.

As he waits for the camera to be readied, he hefts his kitbag into a more comfortable position, and takes in the view of said backyard: of old stands and new, of covers on the wicket (the square moved from its old orientation, he’s still not used to that), of pavilion and Point (the one squat and comfortingly familiar, the other red and sleek and imposing). It’s strange to be here, in some ways; it’s home, but not home. So much has changed, so many new faces. There are memories in whichever direction he looks, but half of them involve people who don’t even play here anymore. For the matter, he barely plays here, now; with the international schedule, he manages a scant handful of matches here in any given season, and it’s been that way for the best part of six or seven years. It’s important to him, to think of himself as belonging here, still part of Lancashire; but sometimes he wonders what that means, when he spends nine months a year with the England squad. When every Test ground in the country is, in some sense, also home turf.

On which thought, he catches sight of his fellow seamers over by the edge of the pitch (officially: doing stretches; unofficially: cavorting like idiots). Before he knows it, he’s smiling.

This, here, is the _really_ irritating part of the whole sodding day: Finny’s back, training with the Test team again, where he belongs. Which is a problem, because Jimmy can’t maintain a proper, respectable bad mood with Finny beaming and prancing about and falling over, like he hasn’t quite got the hang of having knees yet but remains sunnily optimistic that he’ll get there eventually. It’s hard to keep frowning when Finny’s in his eyeline.

When Jimmy finishes the walk this time, he gets a thumbs up from behind the camera. They suggest that he heads for the nets, next, and Jimmy nods, and starts walking, even though he _knows_ this is a bad idea.

Because _oh_ , guess who’s out there in the nets, bending over to strap on his pads like he’s got no idea how comprehensively distracting his arse is.

Jimmy swallows, hard, as he approaches. Keeping his hands to himself seems a lot less appealing when Ali’s right in front of him. He looks back, quickly; the camera’s still a way behind him. Time to say something, if he’s quick and discreet. (And he can be discreet, right? Course he can.)

He exchanges nods with Belly and Gary, lowers his kitbag to the ground, then hovers at the top of Ali’s net, leaning awkwardly against a pole and tapping his foot absently against what he guesses is Ali’s bag as he dredges his brain for words. The pole’s been wrapped in yellow foam, from ground level to above head height; Jimmy can only assume it’s there to soften the blow when Finny inevitably trips and smacks into it. (It must be hard for Finny, Jimmy sometimes thinks: living among the humans when you’re more than half giraffe.) He reaches out to fidget with the netting, and the soft skin of his upper arm brushes against the foam. The texture of it – soft, dry sponge – sends a shiver of revulsion through him. He decides this is useful; it might keep him from getting too lost in staring at Ali. As if anything could.

(Oh, yeah, he's supposed to be talking. _Right_.)

Now he’s here, though, he hasn’t got a clue what he wants to say. And Ali’s no help at all: there was a smile on him at first, but after a quick glance beyond Jimmy – at the camera following him, presumably – he doesn’t even look up again, just lifts his right foot onto his bag, fastening straps around his calf with brisk, precise movements. These aren’t exactly signals that encourage words to flow.

Later, Jimmy will remember the flush on the other man’s cheeks, and think that there was something brittle about this briskness; or maybe he’ll just hope that, because it would mean Ali wasn’t as calm as he looked while he paid Jimmy less attention than he might a seagull wandering around on the grass beside him. Now, though, Jimmy’s too busy contemplating the other man’s thigh – Ali’s stance putting it invitingly on display for him – and imagining himself tightening other straps against Ali’s skin.

More than that, though. He’s too busy wanting to smooth away the lines of worry he can see gathering around the other man’s eyes and mouth. Lines he’s become all too familiar with this summer; lines he’s caused, often enough.

He curls his fingers in the netting, using the feel of the tough fibres cutting into his skin to halt that risky train of thought; clears his throat. Stares down at the bag that’s serving as a footrest for both of them.

“Plans tonight?” he says, in a low mutter that’s only partly about trying not to be overheard.

“Yeah,” says Ali, still not looking up. “Dinner with Joe and a few others.”

“Joe,” Jimmy echoes, and there’s a stab of annoyance in his belly. “Right.” He grits his teeth, starts to push himself away from the pole, keeping his back to the camera. “That lad’s seeing a lot of you at the moment.”

No reaction from Ali. Which is fine. It’s fine. Right in front of a camera isn’t the place to do this, anyway.

\--

Alastair isn’t really in the mood for dinner in company, but eating out with his teammates is a duty he’s been neglecting of late – _no prizes for guessing why_ , he thinks – and he tells himself that it’ll cheer him up.

It does, actually. There’s something inherently relaxing about the easy rapport of CJ and Mo, and Mo’s quiet self-possession has, not surprisingly, taken on an extra patina of assurance since his decisive contribution to the last Test. Jos, too, seems to have shed some of that anxiety he brought to Southampton; his smiles come more easily, now, with a match under his belt. And Joe, well; he’s Joe. A bundle of energy and giggles, as usual, and sweetly solicitous of Jos – when the pair of them aren’t teasing each other – in a way that makes Alastair draw in a wistful breath, and look away.

When Alastair looks back, he finds Jos – who’s sitting beside him – is watching him. The other man’s thoughtful face is only half-turned to him, but that doesn’t quite diffuse the sudden impression that’s he’s under scrutiny, and Alastair tenses, waiting for some query about his state of mind or his plans for the Test. The question he gets is the last he expects – and the last, in truth, that he wants to answer.

“Where’s Jimmy tonight?”

Alastair looks down, hastily, at his plate; notices, more or less for the first time, that he’s cut his steak into an awful lot of tiny pieces. He isn’t sure how much he’s actually eaten.

The restaurant’s loud; the floor is tiled, the walls painted concrete, the tables packed close together. Lots of hard surfaces for sound to bounce off. It occurs to him that he could pretend he hasn’t heard; who knows, maybe he _hasn’t_ heard right, maybe he’s reading Jimmy into places where he doesn’t belong.

CJ leans across the table, and takes the decision out of his hands. “The seamers are having a lads’ night out,” he says. “Welcoming Finny back.”

Alastair smiles at that, then almost immediately winces at the thought of Finny after a few drinks.

Apparently reading Alastair’s mind, Joe – who’s sitting on the other side of Jos – says, “That can’t end well.”

Jos smirks. “You’d know _all_ about that.” He mimes a punch at Joe’s jaw; his knuckles make what looks like very gentle contact with the other man’s chin.

“Nah,” says Mo. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hit Finny.”

“I used to think the same thing about Joe,” says CJ, and Alastair has to grin at how perfectly he’s teed this up.

Jos obliges with the punchline: “And then you met him?”

Joe’s jaw drops in mock outrage, and CJ throws his head back, laughing heartily.

“You used to be so _nice_ ,” says Joe to Jos, shaking his head. “I don’t know; eighty-five on debut and he gets some proper _sass_ on him.”

“It’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch,” says CJ, with a sidelong look at Mo, who just smiles serenely, and sips his drink.

“So how come you’re not out with the seamers, CJ?” says Joe. “Didn’t you get invited?”

 _Tactless, Joe_ , thinks Alastair, wondering if perhaps Joe’s affront isn’t entirely feigned, and hoping CJ's presence here isn't down to some tensions brewing among the bowlers that he'll need to manage.

CJ, though, is smiling. “I got a better offer,” he says, clapping one hand to Mo’s back and stealing a slice of his pizza with the other.

They all go quiet for a moment, as a family dressed in dripping coats edge past their table, following a waitress with her hands full of menus. The door at the restaurant entrance closes slowly in their wake; through the glass, Alastair can see rain sheeting down, past street lights that have come on early in the gloomy half-light. He wipes at the drops that the couple have left behind on the white table-top, and remembers the forecast he saw before he came out. The short version is that it doesn’t bode well for them getting a result out of this match.

Which means going into the final match of the series still at one-all. Everything to play for; everything to lose. Although at least they’ve got—

He hasn’t even been listening to the conversation, but a single overheard word hooks him, reels him in: out of his thoughts, back to the conversation at the table. A name: _Jimmy_ , of course.

“…because he’s been superseded,” Joe’s saying, “as the best-looking Lanky in the squad.”

Jos, blushing, elbows Joe, while CJ says, “Don’t go saying that around him. He works hard on that hair, and everything. You’ll make him grumpy.”

Joe laughs. “Jimmy’s _always_ grumpy.”

"Grumpi _er_ , then."

“He’s not.”

Alastair only realises he’s said this out loud when everyone at the table turns to look at him. _Um_ , he thinks. This could be more embarrassing – he could have said, _He doesn’t need to work hard_ , maybe, or _Yeah, you should see that hair first thing in the morning_ – but, well, only just.

He swallows, says quietly, “He’s not _always_ grumpy.”

CJ shrugs, finishing off his stolen slice of pizza. “You know him better than we do.”

“It’s part of his charm, anyway,” says Mo. “It’s what makes him Jimmy. Don’t try talking to him before eleven AM. Much like CJ, really.”

Mo’s turn to get an elbow.

“At _least_ eleven,” says Joe, with a ruefulness that suggests there’s a story lurking behind the comment. As he returns his attention to the half-finished bowl of pasta in front of him, he says, absently, “I don’t know. Swanny used to be really good at cheering him up.”

Alastair loses the rest of his appetite. He excuses himself, and escapes to the bathroom.

\--

The seamers keep it sensible, for once. It’s good to welcome Finny back, but they’ve got a match in just over twenty-four hours, and Jimmy, for one, remembers all too well the alcohol-soaked lessons of the old days – Fred’s brief period in charge of the team, and before that.

So although it’s dark when they’re ambling back into the hotel lobby, that’s got more to do with the weather than with the time; it’s impossible to tell if the sun’s actually set or not.

They spot Mo and CJ, standing together by the entrance to the bar; Chris picks up the pace, smiling from ear to ear, greets them both with pats on the back. Jimmy’s about to join them when CJ shifts to one side, and he catches sight of Ali. The other man’s laughing, and Joe – of course – is hanging onto his arm, one hand on a bicep and another down by Ali’s wrist. Joe’s talking nineteen to the dozen, and waving Ali’s arm around by Jos’ face, and Jimmy doesn’t want to know. He just doesn’t.

He gives Finny a quick, affectionate punch on the shoulder, says, “Night,” and slips away to the lifts.

\--

One minute Jimmy was there in the lobby, the next he wasn’t. Broady looked blank when Alastair casually – sort of casually – enquired where he’d gone, and eventually – too late – Alastair decided to try upstairs.

By the time he gets upstairs, though, there’s no sign of Jimmy, and he doesn’t know for sure which one’s his door. He _did_ see Jimmy coming out of a room two days ago, true, but that might not have been his, it might be Broady’s. Not that it’d matter if Alastair knocked on it, because Broady’s still down in the lobby and so won’t answer the door. But maybe it wouldn’t be _conclusive_ if no-one answered, maybe Jimmy wouldn’t answer the door to Alastair. After all, Jimmy’s been weird since Southampton, hasn’t he? He’s been weird since the cufflinks. Except for that time yesterday when they kissed in the dressing room, but even _then_ he was avoiding conversation, and avoiding catching Alastair’s eye—

Alastair lets a frustrated growl rise up in his throat. _Enough_ , he thinks, _enough_ ; he’s getting nowhere, again, just babbling inside his own head, again. He unlocks his own door with a swift, sharp twist of the key, and slams it shut behind him.

Inside the dark of his room, he stands with his hands on his hips, listening to his pulse beat out an angry rhythm in his chest. _Fine_ , be _like that_ , he thinks; and he’s not sure whether it’s aimed at Jimmy, or himself. Maybe both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know it should be 'de la lluvia', not 'del'; they don't know any Spanish grammar, though ;)


	3. Chapter 3

_Temptation_  
_I give up the fight, tonight_  
_Oh my body is an open mouth_  
_Temptation_  
_I just have to know, right now_  
_‘Cause I don't want to be the one_  
_Who let you go_  
\--Carina Round, ‘Stolen Car’  
([lyrics](http://www.absolutelyrics.com/lyrics/view/carina_round/stolen_car); [listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LyD5UmTI97g) NB rather cheesy video)

\--

The first day of the Test is a good one for England – they have India all out for one hundred and fifty-two by tea – but the rain arrives in force on the second day, after lunch. While they wait for pitch inspection after non-appearing pitch inspection, the players variously spend the long afternoon hours in the gym (CJ, Jos, Chris, Ali – but the latter only until Jimmy turns up), lounging in the dressing room going over team plans (Ali again, Broady), playing chess (Mo, defeating all comers), or bouncing a tennis ball off the wall and getting on Jimmy’s nerves (Joe, still in his pads).

As time wears on, some wander out to visit friends and family sheltering in the pavilion, and return to report, with a certain ghoulish glee, on the ever-deepening lake that is the outfield. Others slope off to find somewhere to nap. Jimmy would normally do the latter, but somehow he never quite gets round to leaving. Instead, he stretches out, face down, on a vacant bench: head pillowed on folded arms, eyes closed, earphones in. He turns his music up loud enough to fade out the increasingly desultory conversation around him, but not so loud he couldn’t hear someone approaching.

(It always pays to be on guard, in the dressing room, but especially on a rain delay day, when everyone’s bored.)

He can’t relax. His eyelids keep flickering open, and he knows why, although for a while he pretends to himself that he doesn’t, that’s it’s just the usual stop-start uncertainty of a rain delay getting to him. That he’s not grinding his teeth every time he hears Joe aim a comment at Ali. That looking for Ali isn’t the first thing he does every time his eyes open. He tells himself that his gaze is only drawn to the other man because he stands out, the one dark blue training shirt in a sea of whites.

Increasingly, he doesn’t have to look very far. Earlier in the day, Ali was up, laughing, moving around the room, talking to people; as the hours tick by, though, and the pitch inspections are pushed ever further back, he gets quieter, stays in the same seat.

Now, Ali’s better at hiding tension than he used to be. (Jimmy knows the tale, everyone does, of how Matty found Ali in the showers at the climax of the Cardiff Test in 2009, sitting on the floor in a bundle of nerves because he couldn’t watch Jimmy and Monty’s last stand any longer; of Ali yelling at Matty to go away.) But if you know what to look for, the signs are still there, loud and clear: the tightness in Ali’s jaw, the drooping eyelids, the arms just a little too straight and stiff at wrist and elbow; the slight satellite delay between someone speaking to him and the smile he invariably gives in reply.

It’s a reflexive smile, a diminished smile; Jimmy knows this, almost wishes he didn’t. It’s not like he can do anything about it; it’s not like Ali, apparently, _wants_ him to do anything about it. Four evenings, now, that they’ve barely spoken.

Four o’clock; still nothing. Jimmy nips out to see his wife, tells her she might as well take the girls home before they go out of their minds with boredom. Most of his friends have already gone, having seen the writing on the massive great big puddles long before. Back in the dressing room, Pete and some of the others are discussing, in low voices, the rain radar for the rest of the Test (one word: ominous). Ali’s noticeably more slumped in his chair. Jimmy pulls on his tracksuit top – it’s chilly outside, and the dressing room’s cooling down, too, with fewer and fewer people in it – and lies down on his back rather than his belly. Harder to see Ali from this angle, at least without obviously lifting his head; he’ll try a stint of staring at the ceiling instead. He curls his fingers around the edges of the bench, gripping hard. Turns up his music.

Five o’clock comes and goes, and another planned inspection doesn’t materialise; still too much water on the outfield. More people wander off. Jimmy wonders what the odds are that he and Ali will end up being the last ones left in here; maybe, then, he’ll be able to talk to him. But what’s he going to say, anyway? _It drives me crazy when Joe hugs you in public_? True (if colossally stupid on several levels), but not exactly a line that’s going to defuse any tension.

Five forty. Finally, some action; Marais Erasmus shows up at the balcony. Jimmy pauses his mp3 player and props himself up his elbows to listen, although it’s pretty obvious what the news is: play abandoned for the day.

A sigh goes up, equal parts frustration and relief. Across the room, Ali stands, shaking his head, and mutters, with some venom, “Whose bright idea was it to have a Test in _Manchester_ , anyway?”

Jimmy bristles, reflexively, but Ali’s already on his way out the door – not back into the building, but out towards the pitch. Jimmy catches sight of Broady, who’s sitting beside the door, already with his phone in hand (fifteen seconds after stumps, must be a record). Broady jerks his head in the direction Ali’s gone; Jimmy shakes his own head, slightly. (Feeling a subtle tug, an urge to follow, but wanting to resist it, and not just because he knows he’s probably the last person Ali wants to see right now.) Broady’s gaze doesn’t waver, although his expression takes on a tinge of impatience. Jimmy holds his ground, until he hears Joe’s voice and is struck by a sudden vision of Joe heading out after Ali. He gives in, hauling himself up from the bench.

It’s miserable outside: cold, clammy, grey, deserted; and raining again. _Sometimes, Manchester_ , Jimmy thinks, pausing in the doorway, psyching himself up, _you make it really fucking hard to defend you_.

The soles of his trainers squeak on the wet steps, but the man standing by the edge of the pitch, framed by the pavilion on the opposite side of the ground, never looks round, just keeps watching the ground staff soaking up water from the outfield. Ali has his arms folded (patently unfair, given how good said arms look when he does it); rain’s spotted the dark shoulders of his t-shirt, is spreading quickly. Jimmy hangs back a few paces, looks around in vain for some shelter.

“If you want an argument,” he says, pitching his voice to carry, “can we do it under cover?”

Silence. Jimmy can feel rain trickling past his collar, inside his shirt, down towards his shoulderblades. He shifts, irritably. Tries to decide how long to give this; where the line might be between being patient and overstaying his welcome. (Did Ali want to be followed, or not?)

At last, Ali shrugs; arms still folded, still not looking round. “I’m trying to understand what it’s like to be a northerner.”

(It’s a dig, but it’s not a _piss off_ ; Jimmy decides he’ll take what he can get and work with it.)

“Well, for a start, the locals know better than to stand around in the rain, if they can avoid it.” Jimmy pushes his rapidly collapsing quiff back off his forehead, tries something more conciliatory. “The weather here saved us, this time last year.”

“We were already two-nil up in the series, by then,” Ali snaps. “This year we don’t have that luxury.” Jimmy sees Ali’s shoulders tense further, before the other man adds, more quietly, “I don’t have that luxury.”

It's the switch from _we_ to _I_ that does it, Jimmy will reflect, later. Another glimpse of that vulnerability from the start of the Test in Southampton, the morning he managed to make Ali unwind, if only for a short while, and sleep. It makes things more urgent, makes Jimmy chuck out what he planned to say, and go for broke.

“Things are weird,” he blurts. “Between us. I don’t want it to be weird. How, like… What can I do? To make it better?”

Another silence; longer this time. The rain gets heavier. Ali’s shirt is starting to cling to him; his hair is clumping into drowned-rats’ tails, raindrops gathered at the ends. Damp’s seeping through Jimmy’s long-sleeved tracksuit top; it’s not a pleasant feeling. Must be worse, of course, if you’re only in a t-shirt.

“If it’s weird, it’s because I _made_ it weird.” Ali half-turns his head. He’s looking down at the ground, but at least now Jimmy can see his profile; the struggle in it. Ali draws in a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “About Southampton, and the… the present. It was… Well. Bad judgement.”

There are a couple of raindrops on his eyelashes; Jimmy spots this just before Ali rubs a hand over his face, so he barely has time (but does have time) to think about how he could brush away those drops.

“I’ve been… mortified,” says Ali. “Completely mortified. I never meant to freak you out.”

Jimmy’s moving towards him; has to check himself before he gets too close. _Public_ , he reminds himself. “I wasn’t freaked out.”

“You don’t need to be polite,” says Ali, with just the hint of a weary smile. “It was obvious. Anyway. I’m sorry. For giving you, you know… the wrong idea.” There are goosebumps on Ali’s arms; his lips are purple, edging towards blue.

“You didn’t give me the wrong idea,” says Jimmy. _Boundaries_ , he thinks; _it was about boundaries, that’s all_. He doesn’t know how to explain this; doesn’t fully understand it himself. “I just want to… keep things simple.”

“Simple. Right. Yeah.” Ali looks up, finally. “Absolutely.”

The relief in his face plucks at something inside Jimmy’s chest. He gives in to what he wants.

“Come inside,” says Jimmy. “Come in out of the rain. Please.” He huffs a laugh. “I feel cold just looking at you.”

\--

Alastair follows Jimmy in a daze. He doesn’t have space in his head to wonder how, when they go back inside, they’ll explain why the pair of them look like they’ve been paddling on the outfield. Jimmy’s muttered something about a shower, about warming up, but Alastair’s too busy trying to keep his face still, trying not to even think anything that might give him away.

 _Keep it simple_. He can do that. He needs some practice, but he can do that. After a week of feeling like he’s lost a friend as well as a… whatever Jimmy is now, one thing has become very clear to him: simple’s better than nothing at all. He never knew he could miss _touch_ so strongly. It's a weakness in him, but not one he wants to fight, anymore; he has too many other battles.

So Alastair follows, grimacing at the feel of the wet fabric sticking to his calves and his chest and his back as they pace the length of a draughty subterranean corridor. When they reach the top of a different set of stairs, though, he finds that Jimmy’s led them to the showers without going through the dressing room. Two of the cubicles are occupied, but the water’s running in both and there’s no-one wandering about. One of the showerers is singing (it sounds like CJ), and he can hear voices echoing down the corridor to the dressing room, but no doors open.

Jimmy gives Alastair a gentle push into an empty cubicle, turns away. _Not a chance_ , thinks Alastair; he grabs Jimmy’s forearm and pulls him inside.

“Hang on,” he says, softly, closing the cubicle door. “Hang on a minute. I want something, first.”

He cups Jimmy’s startled face in his cold hands, presses his mouth over Jimmy’s. Jimmy gives a soft grunt and clutches at Alastair’s hips, and then for a long, long moment this is all there is: Alastair’s fingers in Jimmy’s wet hair, two sets of lips locked hard together, everything else perfectly still. Jimmy’s mouth is warm and his hands are strong and _this; yes, this_. At last Jimmy hums, a little, and Alastair smiles at the vibration, parting his lips and tilting his head for a better angle as Jimmy pulls him in more tightly.

At some point, Jimmy breaks the kiss. “You’re shivering,” he says. “We can do this later.”

Alastair drops his hands from Jimmy’s face, runs them down over his neck, past his shoulders, to his chest. His heart’s starting to race as he leans in to breathe in Jimmy’s ear: “Stay.”

Jimmy goes still, and for a long moment Alastair would give anything in the world to be able to read his mind. Then the other man shifts, but only far enough to elbow the bolt into place across the cubicle door. It’s only a short step from there to the pair of them peeling off their clothes in snatched gaps between breathless, hungry kisses. Stitching snaps as Jimmy’s pulling Alastair’s shirt over his head. The other man swears, but Alastair mutters, “Doesn’t matter,” and throws the shirt to the floor – it lands on the tiles with a wet slap – without even looking at it. He stops thinking.

\--

The water’s a shock at first – the temperature contrast a sharp one – but soon it’s soothing, a deliciously warm embrace around them, cascading down their backs and trickling down through the sliver of a gap between their bodies. Jimmy can’t get enough of Ali under his hands, grasping and caressing everything he can reach. It’s a while before he settles enough to spot the industrial-sized bottle of shower gel fitted to a bracket on the wall, but as soon as he does, he coaxes Ali to turn and face the wall. He rubs a dollop of gel into a lather between his hands, slowly and contemplatively, letting his gaze roam over the expanse of naked, glistening skin in front of him, letting Ali (who’s watching him over his shoulder) see him enjoy the sight.

Then he moves in, kissing the nape of Ali’s neck and sliding his palms up over Ali’s shoulders, along the ridge of muscle that climbs to his neck and back down again, digging his fingers in, massaging. Drags his hands down almost the full length of Ali’s back, brings them back up more slowly: squeezing, sliding, pressing in, circular motions; re-learning the shape of him. Down his arms, next, closing his eyes as he lingers over Ali’s biceps, onwards towards his hands, sliding his fingers between the other man’s and gripping tightly, just for a moment. Then back up, using just fingertips to stroke the more sensitive skin on the underside of Ali’s arms, until he reaches his armpits, where he can’t quite resist creating soapy little spikes out of the hair. Ali turns his head again and they laugh, silently, against each other’s mouths.

Jimmy’s cock’s aching, but it’s a good ache: anticipation, not frustration. Need being met, need that will be met, and not just Ali’s; a thing that’s been missing since Southampton, although he hasn’t wanted to admit that to himself.

More shower gel, and now Jimmy’s stepping in closer still, pushing himself up against Ali’s slick, smooth back and kissing his neck again as he reaches round to trace his collar bone, and beyond: teasing (and pinching) Ali’s nipples with slick fingers, skidding down past ribs to taut belly, then outwards to his hips and round to his arse. He takes his time over this last, groping him thoroughly, but steers clear of anywhere more sensitive, for now. Crouches down to give the same treatment to Ali’s thighs and calves, tickling the back of a knee and narrowly missing an accidental shin to the face, for his pains. (Win some, lose some; possibly he won’t try that again.)

Then he stands up, pulling Ali properly back under the hot water, to rinse him off and make sure he’s warming up properly – and to steal a very necessary prolonged smooch. Ali leans into Jimmy after they’re done (pliable, like he’s moulding himself to the shape and stance of Jimmy’s body; like he’s relaxing), and Jimmy holds onto him, stroking his back.

“You missed a bit,” Ali murmurs, and when Jimmy draws back to look at him, he’s met with an impish grin.

“Greedy,” Jimmy whispers back, but he matches him grin for grin. “Show me.”

More lathered gel. (Jimmy wonders where the drain from the showers goes to; whether anyone’s getting alarmed as gallons of fragrant foam pour forth from a pipe somewhere.) This time, Jimmy lets Ali take the lead; doesn’t want to overstep any lines.

Joined hands slide down the narrow trail of hair from Ali’s belly button to his crotch; slippery fingers, entwined, stroke his shaft. (Gasps in Jimmy’s ear.) Ali edges out of the water, leans against the tiles, pulling Jimmy with him; face flushed, he pushes Jimmy’s hand further between his legs, lingering only a little over his balls, further on until Jimmy feels, under a soapy fingertip, Ali’s entrance. Jimmy plays with the puckered skin, circling and teasing it, then pushes a little way inside, just about holding off Ali’s attempts to get him to do more (faster, harder, deeper). Kisses him, deeply, to help stifle his moans.

Ali’s voice buzzes in his ear, again: “Don’t suppose you fancy… you know, following through?”

Jimmy wants to hear the words; see his face. He pulls back, eyebrows arched. “With what?”

Ali, head dropping back against the tiles, gives him a look through heavily lidded eyes. “Do you want,” he says, quietly, and evenly, “to fuck me?”

Jimmy closes his eyes a moment, drawing in a deep breath. _Always_ , he thinks.

“Hotel,” is what he says aloud. When Ali rolls his eyes with a smile, Jimmy adds, “Not because I want to torment you. I mean, I do, but that’s not the only reason. We’ve got nothing here. No lube, no…”

“Can’t we use the shower gel?”

“Maybe. But there’s a decent chance it’ll sting like crazy.”

(He has no idea if that’s true. And truth is, it wouldn’t be too difficult to _find_ what they need. This is an excuse, not the real reason he’s digging his heels in.)

Ali’s not letting it go. “So we can do without.”

“No. Don’t want to hurt you.”

Ali shrugs. “I can handle a bit of pain.”

“Not worth it.” (This, at least, isn’t just an excuse.) “Really, just— Trust me. Hurts.”

Ali scrutinises Jimmy for a long moment, then lets out his breath with a hiss. “ _Him_ again.”

Jimmy’s throat is tight. “Not everything’s about Pup.”

“This is. I can tell from your face.” Jimmy doesn’t know what to say to that – _what’s happening on my face?_ – and Ali’s not waiting for a reply anyway, sounds angry when he mutters, “ _Fucking_ — I wish I could… obviously not _hit_ him, we’ve talked about that—”

Jimmy gives a hollow chuckle. “He’d probably enjoy that.”

“I just wish I could, I don’t know… go back in time and pull you away from him.”

Jimmy feels a pressure in his chest; makes himself smile. “I wouldn’t have listened,” he says. “Wasn’t very bright, back then. Didn’t like taking advice. Ran towards what people warned me off.”

Ali’s grinning again. “Whereas _these_ days—”

Jimmy kisses him again, to shut him up, get him off the subject.

It works. “Why oh _why_ ,” says Ali, afterwards, when Jimmy can feel the other man’s heart thumping against his chest, “did we come in here unprepared?”

(Because if they have sex now, Jimmy’s got no excuse to hang around. Because he doesn’t want the evening over that quickly. Because once, before this summer, before they were fucking, it would’ve been fine; they would’ve spent hours playing darts and talking. But things are different now.)

“Because you” –Jimmy gives Ali a peck on the cheek— “decided to run off and join the wet t-shirt contest.” Another kiss, on his earlobe. “You won, by the way. First prize.”

A loud laugh escapes Ali, and he clamps a hasty hand over his mouth. “What’s the prize?” he says, when he’s recovered, in an exaggerated whisper.

Jimmy thinks about this for a moment, then turns the other man back towards the wall. “Something to whet your appetite for later.” He takes hold of Ali’s wrists, draws them around him, and pins them, one-handed, in the small of his back. Then he reaches for Ali’s cock, starts working it with firm strokes.

A small noise escapes Ali. “Might need some help,” he says. “Staying quiet.”

Jimmy stops. “You mean…?”

“Yeah.”

 _Glorious man_ , thinks Jimmy, swallowing hard. “Stay where you are.”

He grabs Ali’s pants from the floor; rinses them under the shower to warm them up, wrings them out thoroughly and folds them, until he’s made a thick, tight bundle of them.

Then he lifts this up to Ali. “Bite down.”

Colour floods Ali’s cheeks as he eyes the improvised gag. Jimmy waits for him to process the sight, gives him chance to refuse. It does look pretty ridiculous, after all; he could hardly blame Ali for scepticism.

He doesn’t refuse. Tentatively, he opens his mouth.

Jimmy hesitates a moment longer, then eases the gag into Ali’s mouth, until there’s a good chunk of it inside. It forces his jaw wide; wet cloth protrudes in front, and to either side. It isn’t ideal, but it’ll do; the newly muffled sound of a moan confirms that.

Jimmy reaches out, traces the lips stretched wide around the gag, his own mouth suddenly dry. Another step; another reason he can’t let go of this man, not yet.

He steps back behind Ali, takes hold again of the wrists that have remained obediently crossed. “Tap?” he whispers in Ali’s ear, and feels fingers curl to reach his hand; gets what he’s looking for. “Good. Two for _no_ ; two for _stop_. Whenever you need it.”

His spare hand closes around the hard shape of Ali’s shaft, but his mouth stays at Ali’s ear. He presses in against Ali’s back, so the other man can feel the thing he wants; the thing he isn’t going to be allowed to have until later.

Words tumble from Jimmy’s lips, now: a low, breathless murmur.

“Think I would’ve left your mouth free. If we’d come prepared. I’d want to hear you, losing control. Or realising you weren’t ever _in_ control. I’d want… I want _them_ to hear you, in the dressing room. Crying out.” He doesn’t know where he finds these words, this tone of command; only knows how good it feels to wield this power, to remind the other man of how helpless he is, and know that Ali’s getting off on that as much as he is. “Want them to hear you, so they know. That someone’s fucking you in here, long and hard, like you deserve. Someone’s fucking you and you can’t get enough of it. They’d be able to hear that. Hear you. Greedy and helpless. Taking anything I’ll give you. Desperate for more.”

A small, broken noise leaks past the gag: half groan, half dry sob. Ali’s forehead is pressed to the tiles, now. Jimmy squeezes Ali’s wrists, gets a single tap of reassurance. He feels something slick under his fingers, a hint of fluid different to the water or the shower gel. Takes this as his signal to drop carefully to one knee, keeping hold of Ali’s wrists but letting go, for the moment, of his cock. He traces lazy circles across Ali’s backside with his free hand: tickling fingertips first, then his palm rubbing, more firmly, starting to squeeze, enjoying the feel and the look of it all, the toned but still substantial handfuls of flesh moulded by his touch.

He pauses, somewhere near the middle of Ali’s left cheek, and pinches, hard, squeezing skin sharply between thumb and forefinger. Ali pulls away, abruptly, but it’s only a tiny movement, and there’s a single tap soon after – and Jimmy smiles to himself.

He pushes at Ali’s thighs, making him open them wider: more vulnerable, more on display. He stretches up to kiss the broad dimples where Ali’s back curves into the top of his arse, then trails lips and tongue down towards the red mark he’s just made. He gets a strong chemical taste of shower gel, and draws back to splash the other man’s arse with water, rinsing it clear. Next, using his free hand to shape the reddened skin into something he can get hold of, he teases the mark with his tongue. Sucks at it: gently at first, but with steadily increasing pressure. Until, finally, he deploys teeth.

Again Ali starts, jerking away; when Jimmy looks round him, and upwards, he can see Ali’s chest heaving. He waits, and a tap comes; just one. (Safe.) By way of checking, of giving the other man chance to object, Jimmy rubs the bruise he’s just made; not too strongly, but enough to conjure up an echo of the pain he’s just caused. Again a single tap: _Carry on_.

So he does: he shifts his weight, leans in to give the right cheek the same treatment he gave the left, until he’s created two more or less symmetrical blemishes on that perfect skin. Signs that he was here; signs of _mine_.

(And for the first time Jimmy properly shares Ali’s frustration that they wandered into the shower unprepared. He has a powerful desire to see his cock sliding into Ali with those marks either side. Still, time for that later. They won’t fade _that_ much over the evening, right?)

Ali’s swaying a little, now; he’s shifting his wrists, in that way he has (testing the grip, feeling the restraint, not trying to escape), but with a certain edge of restlessness. His cock is a deep red, and visibly leaking. Jimmy stands, strokes Ali’s lower back, in what he hopes is a soothing way. He doesn’t let go of his wrists.

“Just one more thing,” he whispers into his ear. Ali’s breath, hissing through his nose, is loud, and Jimmy finds himself adding, “You’re doing really well. So good.”

Then he goes back down his knees, and spreads the cheeks of Ali’s backside – as best he can with only one hand free for the task – takes a deep breath of his own, and kisses his way down towards Ali’s soft, puckered hole.

With the gag in Ali’s mouth, he can barely hear the other man from down here, but he feels the muscles around his hand tense, and he pauses. He squeezes a question to Ali’s wrists, and for the first time there’s a hesitation, but he gets the single tap reply (this time, too, Ali’s fingers stay curled around Jimmy’s restraining hand), and goes back in. He drags his tongue across Ali’s hole, several times, exploring the folds in the skin around its edge; teases it with his thumb until it opens a little to him, then dips the tip of his tongue inside and feels the muscles there clutching at him, as if they’re unsure whether to grip him or push him out. Ali’s shifting his weight, now, from foot to foot; clearly struggling to stand still. Jimmy makes him wait just a little longer, pushing a finger into him and tonguing the skin around it, until the finger’s reached the bump of the prostate and Ali’s pulling at Jimmy’s grip on his wrists in a way that doesn’t just feel like a test.

Jimmy’s own head is swimming when he stands, and he lets go, this time, of Ali’s wrists. He dips his face under the shower – realising how warm his own skin is only when he feels the water hitting it – and fills his mouth with water, spitting it out to wash away the taste of shower gel. Then he folds his arms around Ali, drawing him back under the shower, too; strokes his shoulders and his back and trails slow kisses across his collar bone and around his hairline, until his breathing slows and he seems more stable on his feet. Finally, Jimmy reaches down, enjoys the feel of that achingly hard cock against his palm as he tugs and squeezes it to climax.

Then he murmurs, “I’ve got you,” into the other man’s hair, as Ali shudders and shakes in his arms.

\--

Jimmy leaves Ali in the shower while he does the noble thing and ventures out in search of towels (the _other_ accessory they forgot to take into the shower with them). He’s already regretting turning down Ali’s rather spaced-out offer of a returned favour (it’s not like he’s got anything to prove about patience, any more), but luckily he and his hard-on don’t bump into anyone (literally or figuratively), mostly because Old Trafford is a proper ground that’s well stocked with the necessities, so he can steer clear of the dressing room and return with his quarry.

It’s Ali, then, who heads for the dressing room first, while Jimmy slides to the floor of the shower cubicle, waits for his cock to calm down, and tries not to think about whether he actually said _I’ve missed you_ , there at the end, instead of what he meant to say.

(He has, though. Missed him. If he ever thought this thing between them would be an easy one to pick up and put down, he was wrong. Dangerously wrong.)

In the end, he gets bored of waiting (and thinking); knows he’s not going to calm down any time soon without some help. He stands up, braces an arm against the wall, and rubs one off in record time.

The dressing room’s deserted except for Woakesy (who’s on his way out as Jimmy pads in from the showers) and Broady (who’s tapping at his phone). Jimmy drops the bundle of his and Ali’s wet clothes as discreetly as he can, and starts picking through his bag to see what he has that’s wearable.

“Should be all right tomorrow,” Broady’s saying, holding up his phone screen in Ali’s general direction.

“Yeah, but it’s Sunday and Monday I’m worried about.” Ali sighs, shrugs. He’s put on a fresh t-shirt, sadly, but he’s still got a towel around his waist. “Well. Out of our hands, I guess.”

Jimmy draws in a satisfied breath; there’s warmth in his belly. Ali doesn’t sound happy about the weather, exactly, but this definitely beats white knuckles and pacing.

( _I did that_ , he thinks, absently rubbing his thumb along the hem of the jeans he’s got half-pulled out of his bag. _I made him relax. A bit._ )

“ _Sort of_ out of our hands,” Ali goes on. “If you two bowl anything like you did in the first innings, though, who knows?”

His tone’s arch; when Jimmy looks round, he catches a sly smile and a sidelong gaze trained on him. He fights a smile of his own, trying not to picture in _too_ much detail the ways Ali might show his appreciation.

“Hey,” says Broady, and Jimmy starts; he’d almost forgotten the other bowler was there. Broady, luckily, isn’t looking up from his phone as he speaks. “I’ve done _my_ bit. I got a six-fer. It’s Jimmy who needs to catch up.”

Ali snorts. “ _Jimmy_ , slow to start? Who would’ve _imagined_ that?”

Jimmy glares at him, mouthing _Brat_ ; Ali just grins more widely.

“Did get Jadeja though,” says Jimmy. “That was pretty satisfying.”

“Still,” says Ali. “I’m expecting a lot more from you, you know… in the second round.”

Second round, indeed. Shameless brat Ali, Jimmy decides, is the best Ali. He thinks quickly. “Got any deodorant?” he says, strolling over. “Can’t find mine.”

Ali turns round to dig in his kitbag, and Jimmy gets right up behind him; blows on the back of his neck, runs a quick fingertip along the line of the towel tied around his hips.

Ali coughs, clearly struggling not to laugh. “Here,” he says, holding out an aerosol can.

Jimmy wrinkles his nose, seeing the flaw in his plan; he’s going to have to use Ali’s cheap stuff instead of his own, now, to keep up the show for Broady. Never mind, though; it’s worth it for the flush he brings out on Ali’s face when he reaches out to take the can, closing his hand over the top of Ali’s and taking his sweet time about releasing him.

As he’s walking away, there’s even more to feel smug about: he sees Ali start to sit, stop with a wince, and then lower himself down _much_ more carefully.

“You all right there?” Jimmy can’t resist saying, with feigned concern. “Cop a few in the nets?”

“Something like that,” says Ali. “Bowlers, eh?”

And goodness knows how long the exchange of grins (one gleeful, one rueful) would’ve gone on for, but for Broady’s interruption:

“ _Christ_ , you two. Get a _room_.”

Ali goes white. Jimmy’s stomach drops like a stone. He fires a swift glance at Stu, to find the other man’s still absorbed in his phone; breathes a sigh of relief. A joke, then, Jimmy decides; key is not to overreact, or it’ll stop being a joke pretty quickly.

He looks back at his kitbag, forcing a bored note into his voice. “In your dreams, Broady.”

Broady laughs. “Not while there’s breath left in my body.” He hops to his feet, tossing his phone up and catching it. “Dinner with me and Finny later?”

Jimmy grunts something non-committal. As soon as the door closes behind him, Ali blurts out, sounding slightly strangled, “Bollocks. He _knows_.”

Jimmy snorts, drops his towel to the floor. “He doesn’t know.”

“Did you hear what he _said_?”

“Don’t panic. Banter.” Jimmy pulls on some pants, then his jeans. Ali, he notices, is still motionless. “Come on,” he says, “this is _Broady_. He’d be much more freaked out if he genuinely thought we were shagging.”

Alastair doesn’t look totally convinced, but he busies himself with taking off his towel and, after a moment, craning his neck to try to see his arse. The twin bruises look excellent, even if Jimmy does say so himself.

“You know,” he says, “plenty of mirrors back at the hotel.”

Ali sticks out his tongue – but finishes dressing in a hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've departed from the real events in this chapter in two ways (besides, obviously, the ship itself):
> 
> 1) The rain had actually stopped by the time play was suspended, I think - the issue was the flooded outfield because of the sheer amount of rain that had fallen earlier in the day. But I really wanted a melodramatic standing out in the rain thing, so I was mean to Manchester. Sorry. (I did grow up in Greater Manchester, though, and I don't think it's an entirely implausible description!)
> 
> 2) Finny was actually released to play for the Lions at the start of this Test, so technically he wasn't there once the match started. But I want him there, so... shhh. ;)
> 
> One thing that is true is the anecdote about Matt Prior finding Alastair hiding in the showers while Jimmy was batting with Monty at the end of the 2009 Cardiff Ashes Test. See [this video](http://www.espncricinfo.com/the-ashes-2015/content/story/895063.html), from about 1:55.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing a week, and for my usual verbosity meaning that the planned last chapter has become two chapters. (All being well, the other will follow next Friday.)
> 
> Many, many thanks to piranhafish and twowittoowhoo for brainstorming this with me on Sunday and Monday, and in particular helping me decide what needed to be cut from the first draft; thanks also to knockmeforsix, sirlampsy211 and all-rounder-insane for being lovely and encouraging when I had a bit of a wail on tumblr last week, and to tanyakini & agreedequation & tangledupin_blue for many months of fab comment conversations, here and on your own fics. I can't emphasise enough how important and wonderful comments and messages and kudos are: on a good writing day, they turn me into a small pile of squee, and on a bad day they give me the boost I need to keep going.
> 
> All the other cricket fam authors I've spoken to about this say much the same, so... seriously, if ever you've enjoyed a story on here or on tumblr, don't be shy - leave a note to tell the author that! Doesn't matter if all you say is "eeeeeeeee!", doesn't matter if it's three years since the fic was published, the author will adore you, trust me (and hopefully write more, which is what we all want, right?). I think we do pretty well at this in cricketslash, actually, especially given how tiny we are - I get so sad when I read amazing fics in other AO3 fandoms that have thousands of hits and all of two comments - but, y'know, conversations are the stuff of life and I always welcome more of them :)
> 
> In conclusion, fic communities are great, ours is the best, and here endeth the PSA <3

Alastair’s in his hotel room en-suite, half-dressed and rinsing out his rain-sodden training kit, when he hears the knock at the door to the room.

“It’s open,” he calls, as he twists his t-shirt into a tight rope to wring it out.

When he next looks up – shaking the t-shirt out – it’s to see Jimmy reflected in the wide horizontal mirror in front of him. The other man’s standing in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. The brightness of the strip light on the ceiling makes him, standing just outside its reach, look like he’s in shadow; the colours of him are indistinct, hard to make out beyond light and shade. He’s wearing a slim-fitting pale shirt – cuffs folded up to the middle of his forearms, showing glimpses of a darker lining, and a single button undone at his neck to reveal a similar lining inside his collar – with black trousers that look gratifyingly tight, at least from this distance. He’s redone his hair, and there’s something about his half-smile that makes Alastair – reaching up to spread his t-shirt over the steamed-up panel that separates the walk-in shower from the rest of the bathroom – fumble, and almost drop the t-shirt.

“Hey,” he says, quickly. “I left the door propped open; you didn’t need to knock.”

A shrug from those perfect shoulders. “Feel strange to just walk in without asking.” Jimmy’s smile broadens. “I mean, I might catch you doing manual labour with no shirt on, and then I’d just have to stand in the doorway and stare…”

A month ago, this remark would probably have had Alastair reaching for something to cover himself up; probably even last week, actually. But he’s just spent half an hour showering with the other man, in ways that make shyness feel rather redundant. He can still feel Jimmy’s mouth against the skin between his legs, if he stops concentrating on what he’s doing and lets his mind slip back there. If there’s heat in his face, now – if he can see, in the mirror, that he’s more flushed than he was a few moments ago – it’s the memory that does it, not the way he’s being watched as he gathers up his dark blue tracksuit bottoms and starts to squeeze them out into the sink.

Okay, maybe a bit of both. The other man’s expression is… avid.

“You know,” Jimmy says, “you can do my kit, too, if you like. As long as you let me watch.”

“Sod off,” says Alastair, mildly, trying to concentrate on what he’s doing, with limited success. The sink is a large, free-standing oval basin on top of a recessed granite counter. It’s surrounded on three sides by mirrors, the two at the sides positioned at oblique angles, widening the field of reflected vision; no matter where he looks, in other words, he can see the other man. “Just because I let you tell me what to do in bed, it doesn’t mean I’m going to do your laundry for you.”

“But you look so _good_.” Jimmy shifts a bit, clears his throat; says, in a more serious tone, “Honestly, I don’t know what it says about me, but this is turning me on.”

Alastair derives quite a bit of satisfaction from watching Jimmy’s face in the mirror as he twists the tracksuit bottoms even more tightly, and holds the pose. Water trickles over his fists and into the sink. “It says you should’ve let me get you off in the shower, before.”

Jimmy shrugs again. “Didn’t seem fair. You could barely stand after I was done with you.”

Alastair slings his tracksuit bottoms up and over the shower partition; decides he _has_ to disrupt this smugness. “Who said anything about standing?”

Jimmy groans; his head drops against the white-painted doorframe with a small thud. “You’re _killing_ me.” The angle of his neck makes his Adam’s apple stick out, more than usual.

Alastair shakes his head, moving back to the sink. “All I’m saying is, you would’ve been less easily distracted when we’re out for dinner.”

Jimmy pushes himself away from the doorframe, saunters into the room. “Find that hard to believe. With you on offer.” The lining of his shirt collar and cuffs, Alastair sees as Jimmy fetches up behind him, is a deep blue; his trousers are, indeed, quite tight.

“But I won’t _be_ on offer.” Alastair feels fingers spreading out across his backside; does his best to ignore this, wringing out his socks, instead. “I’ll be sitting at a table, in a restaurant, having a sensible, sober, not-at-all flirty dinner with our teammates.”

In the mirror, Jimmy’s brow creases. “Wait, what? Dinner?”

“With Broady and Finny…?”

“Oh,” Jimmy mutters, into the nape of Alastair’s neck. “That.” He’s silent for a moment, then says, “Your hair’s wet. Have you had another shower?” Alastair sees him look over at the steamed-up shower partition. “You _have_.”

Alastair laughs. “Did you seriously only just notice my hair’s wet?”

“Well…” Jimmy looks a tiny bit embarrassed. Only a tiny bit. “It’s not really in the top ten things I’ve been looking at.” His arms come around Alastair’s waist, enfolding him; he rests his chin on Alastair’s shoulder, meeting his gaze in the mirror. He’s pouting. “Did I not do a good enough job?”

Alastair pats briskly at the hands linked across his belly. “There are certain things,” he says, “that I’m not doing in front of you.” When Jimmy still looks quizzical, Alastair adds, “You know, preparations…?”

“Uh, right.” Alastair’s expecting Jimmy to take the conversation back to flirting, but what he actually does is look down and say, “Sorry. That’s another thing I should’ve talked to you about. Back when we started. Rather than leaving you to work it out for yourself.”

“No harm done,” says Alastair, keen to get off the subject. “So which ten?”

Jimmy looks up. “Huh?”

“What’re the top ten things you’ve been looking at, if not my hair?”

“Oh… you want the _list_?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Well… Arms, obviously.” Jimmy drags his hands up Alastair’s arms, his touch firm. “Especially when you were, like, wringing. Good wringing. High quality muscle bulging. Well done.” Jimmy clears his throat. “Uh, next. Related reasons, your shoulders. And your back.” Fingertips trail up and down Alastair’s spine; after a hesitation, kisses are scattered across his shoulders. “Your arse. Never far from my thoughts anyway, but today…? Thinking about how those bruises look…?” Jimmy’s fingers press in, finding the spots, waking them up; making Alastair catch his breath. “Mouth. You had your tongue sticking out and it was great. Like when you’re batting. Concentration, or… or something…”

As his words trail off, Jimmy plants his hands on the marble either side of Alastair’s hips, crowds in against his back, trapping him against the sink. Jimmy wasn’t kidding, Alastair can feel now, when he said he was turned on. Alastair turns his face to meet Jimmy’s and there’s a long, slow, deep kiss, the sort that makes Alastair curl his bare toes against the cool tiles of the floor.

When they’re done, it takes him a moment or two to surface again.

“How many’s that?” says the other man, when Alastair opens his eyes.

“Dunno. I lost count a while back.”

Jimmy tuts; Alastair grins, and gives Jimmy a peck on the cheek.

“All right,” says Jimmy. “Back to work.”

Alastair looks back down at the sink, spots a small heap of water-darkened grey cotton. His pants.

“Um,” he says, feeling again his mouth full of fabric, remembering the muffled noises he made. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, sees his jaw working; swallows. He’s well into the stage where his jeans feel uncomfortable against his groin. “I, uh… I don’t think I’m going to be able to look at these in quite the same way again.”

He feels Jimmy’s lips press against the skin behind his ear; feels a hand back on his arse.

“Suited you,” says Jimmy. “The memory does, too.” Fingers grasp Alastair’s jaw, firmly, making him face forward. “Look at you. Cheeks all flushed, biting your lip. Breathing heavier. Just the thought of it.”

Alastair can’t exactly deny it when it’s right in front of his eyes. How hungry he is, for all of it.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Jimmy’s voice is low, a whisper; his touch at Alastair’s jaw is more gentle, now. He clears his throat and adds, louder, more quickly, “You should be illegal. Dangerously good-looking. You could cause, like, car crashes and stuff. ”

Alastair’s embarrassment has been gathering pace since Jimmy said _beautiful_ , but finally he can take no more.

“ _Stop_.” He covers his warming face with his hands; feels Jimmy’s hand leave his jaw. “Stop, stop, stop.” He parts two of his fingers, to peep out at Jimmy’s amused reflection. “Anyway, you’ve got no room to talk about dangerousness, or whatever. You’re the part-time model.”

Jimmy shrugs. “In the right sort of light, sure, I’m okay.” Over Alastair’s spluttering objection, Jimmy goes on, “And I work hard at it. I know the ways of hairstyling are mysterious to you, but my quiff doesn’t form by itself.”

Alastair grins. “I know, I’ve seen you first thing in the morning.” This earns him a poke in the side.

But Jimmy’s expression is still serious. “I _like_ being well dressed, and all that. It makes me feel good. But it’s also… well, it’s my job. It’s what’ll keep me going, after cricket. I’m not Swanny; talking for a living isn’t going to happen. _This_ is what I’ve got. Making myself a brand.”

“Okay, so you put some effort in. But, come on, I spend a lot of time in the gym—”

“True.” A smirk. “Still doesn’t explain your face.”

Alastair sticks out his tongue. His stomach’s churning with something like – but not quite like – nerves. He wants to keep hearing this, and doesn’t, at the same time.

Jimmy’s quiet for a while. “It’s weird, isn’t it,” he says at last, after Alastair’s picked up the pants, for want of anything else to do. “Being… stared at. As a bloke, you’re used to being the one doing the staring.”

 _I stare at you plenty_ , Alastair thinks, but Jimmy’s right; he’s nailed it, a small, niggling discomfort Alastair hasn’t known how to name.

“Yeah,” he says, letting his pants fall back into the sink, but keeping his gaze trained on them. “I don’t think of myself as shy. Not unless talking’s involved. But sometimes you look at me and— I don’t know, I just feel… really aware of… _things_.” He scrubs a hand through damp hair, frustrated with his inability to put this into words. “Sometimes I like it. I like feeling like you’ve got this… this control, and I’m… you know. But other times, yeah… it’s strange. Like you say, I’m not used to it.”

This isn’t the whole truth. _I want to keep things simple_ , Jimmy said earlier, and spontaneous compliments? Not helping with that.

Jimmy’s nodding, though. “I remember going through this,” he says. He huffs a laugh. “Course, even staring isn’t that easy. Depends who you’re staring at. I’ve almost got punched more than once.”

“Tell me about it.” Alastair shuffles his way round, so he’s standing face-to-face with Jimmy. “Not the getting punched bit, but definitely worrying about it. I mean, I’ve spent half my life in dressing rooms around other guys, and… You’re so careful not to look, not to even really see, that you train yourself out of it.”

“D'you ever stare at me? Wait. Yes.” Jimmy’s eyes suddenly light up. “You _did_. That night in Headingley. _The_ night in Headingley. You perved on me in the shower.”

Alastair feels his face flame, says weakly, “Oh. God. Yes.” He tries looking away, but there are mirrors everywhere. He coughs, and opts for hiding his face against Jimmy’s shoulder instead. It’s an excuse to get nearer. “That.”

“I used to ogle you all the time.” Jimmy’s voice is a rumble, a vibration in his chest. It feels nice against Alastair’s cheek, not least because from this position he doesn’t have to see Jimmy’s expression. “I mean, I felt guilty about it, but that didn’t really stop me.”

“Really? I never noticed.” Alastair ponders asking what _all the time_ means; for how long?

“That’s because I’m really subtle. Or because you wouldn’t notice someone fancies you unless they upped and snogged you.”

Alastair wriggles in closer. “That’s not true.”

“Is.”

“Isn’t.”

Jimmy’s hand settles, warm, against Alastair’s back; between his shoulderblades. “So,” he says. “Was Headingley the first time you had a look?”

Oh, now; talking of _embarrassing_ … “Yes. No. Sort of. Nothing that brazen. I was all innocent, remember?” Alastair opts for lifting his head and drawing Jimmy into a kiss, in the hope it’ll distract him.

No such luck. “Go on,” says Jimmy, more or less as soon as he comes up for air.

“It’s complica— Boring. Really boring.”

This time, Jimmy dodges his attempt at a kiss. He’s grinning.

“You can’t leave it _there_.”

“I, uh… yeah.” Alastair absorbs himself in examining his fingernails, but the silence just stretches and eventually he gives in. He doesn’t meet Jimmy’s eye. “Remember how… That time you, uh, did those photos for that gay magazine?”

“Sure.”

“And there was a copy doing the rounds of the dressing room for a while?”

“Ha, yeah.”

“And it kept going missing?”

“…Yes.”

“That wasn’t me, for the record.” Alastair, still keeping his head down, finds his lips curling into an embarrassed smile. “Well, okay, one time it was me, but that was just because – believe it or not – I wanted to read the interview—”

Jimmy laughs; the laugh morphs into a cough. “You’re right,” he says, hoarsely, “I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, _mostly_ I wanted to read the interview, and I knew I’d get comments if I tried reading it in the dressing room. But the photos were… yeah, quite good, and me and you and Swanny were hanging out together quite a lot, and… something just sort of clicked.”

“I’m pretty sure if it clicks, you want to double-check your technique.”

Alastair finally loses it: leans back against the counter, laughing helplessly. “Swanny would be _proud_ of you for that line,” he manages eventually. “And _no_! Well, okay, once. Mostly I just… looked. And mostly not even that, because I thought you two were together. You and Swanny.”

Alastair can’t quite put a word to Jimmy’s expression: bemused, thoughtful, amused, and none of the above, at the same time. “Yeah, you said. When did you find out we weren’t?”

Alastair sighs. “Swanny told me when he retired.”

Jimmy shakes his head, his smile rueful. “That’s… a _lot_ of sex we’ve missed out on.” His expression changes and he grabs Alastair’s arse, pulling him briskly against him. “Quick, we need to make up for lost time.”

Alastair laughs again, more easily this time, and he still is doing when Jimmy’s lips meet his.

“Shh,” mutters Jimmy. “Take this _seriously_.” The other man immediately gives the lie to that, bringing his hands up and tickling Alastair at his waist.

Alastair starts, squirms, and returns the favour. They go staggering and spinning together across the bathroom, end up smack against the tiles of the far wall. Alastair crowds in close to Jimmy, groping his thigh and kissing him hard. Jimmy grunts, nips Alastair’s bottom lip, and uses Alastair’s surprise against him: in a heartbeat, Alastair finds himself pushed back against the wall. Feels again the bruises Jimmy gave him in the shower.

A pause, both of them motionless.

“Don’t get any ideas,” says Jimmy, in that in-charge voice of his: low, steady, unyielding.

And this is safer ground; Alastair knows where he is, with this, trusts how it feels and what he wants. He struggles a little – partly for the fun of it, partly because the tiles are cold against his bare back – and gets more firmly pinned for his efforts.

“Ow,” he says, slowly and deliberately. He manoeuvres a hand free, rubs at the back of his thigh. It’s the closest he can get to his backside.

Concern creeps onto Jimmy’s face, which is not what Alastair’s after, not at all; before the other man can say anything, Alastair sneaks his hand around to Jimmy’s lower back, gives him the single tap for _Yes_. Jimmy tilts his head in a query, and Alastair offers a brief, shallow nod in return. Jimmy narrows his eyes, pushes a hand between Alastair’s arse and the wall. Squeezes his left buttock, hard enough to make Alastair’s breath catch in his throat. He likes the sharp ache: the focus it brings, and the relief when Jimmy loosens his grip again.

Jimmy smiles. “Enjoyed that, did you, in the shower?”

“Enjoyed a lot about the shower,” says Alastair, lifting his chin to encourage Jimmy to kiss his neck.

Jimmy just watches him, squeezing again, making Alastair gasp. “Can’t explain this away, or the other one, as you getting hit by a ball. Unless you’ve gone for a really unorthodox technique in the nets.”

“Or fielding at short leg, turning away to dodge a direct one, oops…”

Jimmy drops his head to laugh, almost letting go; when he looks up again, his eyes are bright. “Ridiculous man,” he says, pressing a kiss to the tip of Alastair’s still (and apparently fruitlessly) raised chin. “Ridiculous, beautiful man.”

Alastair feels a burst of warmth in his chest; needs to kill it. “I told you— I said… stop that. Before.”

“And now I’m in control. So I can say what I want.” Jimmy watches Alastair; his smile fades. “Unless it’s a boundary for you. Is it?” Jimmy’s gaze is searching; there’s nowhere to hide from it. “Tell me,” he says, dropping out of the commanding tone, “and I won’t say it again.”

Alastair rolls his head back further against the wall. Closes his eyes. Words crowd his tongue; words that might explain why he’s nervous about things like this, in a way he wasn’t, before last week. _It’s not you, it’s me_. Can’t say that. And there’s an excuse here, in Jimmy’s words: _I can say what I want_. If Alastair doesn’t have a choice in the matter, he’s not responsible for it, is he?

For Jimmy saying it; for the fact that he wants to hear it.

“It’s not. Not a boundary.”

“You all right?” says Jimmy.

“Yeah,” says Alastair, looking up at the ceiling. “Just… yeah.” _Keep it together_ , he tells himself.

“Rain delay stress?”

“Yeah.” It isn’t _really_ a lie.

“Want me to take your mind off it?”

“I really, really do.”

At last the warm, firm mouth against his throat. A hand at his groin, rubbing at him; pushing everything else away.

“Think I’ll bend you over that sink,” says Jimmy, after a while. “So you can see yourself in the mirror. See yourself being fucked. You can watch that pretty face of yours getting all sweaty.”

Alastair laughs, as Jimmy releases him; perhaps a little loudly, perhaps a little unsteadily, relieved at this change of direction, this dive into safer waters. “Probably not going to sweat.”

“I live in hope,” says Jimmy. “One day I’ll get you there. I’ll fetch the stuff. Get your clothes off, and wait for me.”

Alastair has his belt undone and his jeans pushed past his hips when he remembers something. He shuffles quickly to the bathroom door. “The supplies,” he says, to Jimmy’s retreating back. “Not in the usual place.”

Jimmy picks something up from the bedside cabinet, and turns back. It’s that black bag of his, Alastair sees. His mouth goes dry.

“No problem,” says Jimmy. “Brought my own. And a few new things for us to try.”

Alastair watches him approach, feeling as if every breath is timed to the other man’s footsteps. “Like what?”

Jimmy’s eyes narrow. “Like wait and see.”

And it would be then, of course, that Alastair feels a vibration in his pocket. He hears Jimmy’s phone an instant later, sees the other man’s stride falter; sees him choose to ignore it. But Alastair knows what this is, and digs his own phone out before Jimmy can tell him not to.

“Broady,” he says, rapidly, scanning the message. “Dinner. Wants to meet downstairs in ten minutes.”

“Tell him to wait. Or better yet, tell him to sod off until tomorrow night.”

“Nope,” says Alastair. “We’re going.”

Jimmy gives him a look.

“We are,” says Alastair. He holds up his phone. “The message is addressed to both of us. _Dear Cooky_ , brackets, _and Jimmy_. I bet the one _you’ve_ got mentions me.”

“So?”

“ _So_ he knows.” How can Jimmy not see this?

“Don’t be daft; how could he know?”

Alastair throws up his hands. “All right, he _suspects_ , and he’s taking the piss out of us. So we need to go along to dinner and act, like, aggressively normal.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows quirk. “Says the man standing there with his crotch all on display.”

Alastair looks down. With his jeans open and sliding down his hips, there’s no hiding the fact that he’s pitching a slightly wonky tent in his pants; the tip of his cock’s forced its way out through the slit in the fabric. He puts his phone back in his pocket and pulls his jeans up a bit, planting his hands on his hips in an effort to stop them dropping again; actually zipping up is a step too far, just yet. “Yeah. Well. I’ve got a few minutes to calm down, right?”

“ _Or_ we could stay here, sort ourselves out” –Jimmy’s sidling over as he says this, Alastair tries not to watch him but he can’t help himself— “and meet them later.”

“Because if we both reply saying _Give me an hour_ , that’s not going to look dodgy at all.”

“We can be quick.” The black bag clatters to the floor by their feet, and Jimmy reaches out. His hands cover Alastair’s. “You tell him half an hour, I’ll say fifteen minutes.” Jimmy’s fingers curl around Alastair’s; they start trying to prise his hands away from his jeans. “I’ll just happen to be running late. As usual.”

Alastair fights to keep his grip on the rough denim, but he’s already wavering and the struggle’s only stoking the heat in his groin. “What happened to being patient?”

“ _Much_ easier to behave ourselves in front of Broady if we aren’t all, you know, pent up.”

“Plenty of time later,” says Alastair, more firmly, jerking his hands any from Jimmy’s. “Let’s go get this done. I’ll be able to relax once I know we’ve put Broady off the scent.”

Jimmy watches him a moment, then gives a heavy sigh. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. If you want to be all _sensible_ about this. One condition.”

“What?”

“I get to dress you for dinner.”

Alastair decides it’s easier not to argue. “Be my guest.”

At least rifling through the wardrobe keeps Jimmy quiet. Briefly. Two minutes later, there’s an exasperated noise and Alastair looks round to see Jimmy standing with his hands on his hips.

“What’s up?”

“Do you actually own any casual trousers that aren’t either part of a tracksuit, or ten-year-old jeans three sizes too big?” Before Alastair can answer, Jimmy goes on, “Oh, no, wait. You have corduroys. Of course you do.” He sighs. “I’m more likely to find a wax jacket in here than something wearable, aren’t I?”

Alastair rather enjoys grinning at this; there’s something very endearing about Jimmy when he lets you see how much he cares about this stuff. “I’ve got two, actually, but they’re both at home.”

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “What happened to those trousers you wore at Swanny’s that time?”

“They need repairing. You tore a seam in them, remember?”

“Ah, yeah.” Jimmy nods as he turns back to the wardrobe, intent once more on his task. “Good times.”

\--

When Alastair makes it down to the lobby, just a little more than the suggested ten minutes later, Jimmy’s already there with Broady and Finny. Specifically, Jimmy’s perching on the armrest of a pale brown velvet sofa, with his forearm on one of Finny’s shoulders. He looks poised, comfortable, lithe, and Alastair’s definitely not staring or anything as he steps off the last of the shallow stairs from the mezzanine level.

Jimmy _is_ staring at Alastair, though. He does this more or less from the moment Alastair leaves the bright, glass-ceilinged atrium, as he strides past the concierge desk and the Buddha head sculpture to the reception area with its sofas and tastefully narrow strip of soft, ochre carpet. Alastair tries to warn Jimmy to stop, but there are only so many facial expressions you can try when you need to convey two messages at once – because Broady and Finny are now looking over as well – and he soon gives up.

“Evening,” he says, when he reaches them.

“Hi, Cooky,” says Broady. “You look like you’re about to bust out of that shirt.”

Alastair looks down at the t-shirt Jimmy picked out for him – a deep reddish-brown, with just the faintest hint (apparently this is called _distressed_ ) of a black-line pattern in the centre of the chest – and resists the temptation to glare at the other man when he looks back up. “Allegedly it’s my size.”

What Jimmy actually said was, _This is the only thing in here that’s close to properly fitted for you_ , but it seems unwise to give the full version. Jimmy was quite keen on how snug the short sleeves were. Alastair’s now wishing he’d changed after the other man left.

“Well,” says Finny, with one of his megawatt smiles, interrupting Alastair’s thoughts, “nice of you to get dressed up for us.”

Alastair can practically _feel_ how hard Jimmy’s trying not to grin. “Shall we get going?” he says, brightly but with an edge he sincerely hopes Jimmy can hear.

“Absolutely,” says Broady. They all get up from the sofas. “You not need a jacket, Cooky?”

Alastair shrugs, because if he’s going to wear a tight shirt for Jimmy, the least he can do is torment the other man by making him watch plenty of the shoulder action he apparently likes so much. “Nah,” he says, “I’ll be okay.” As Broady and Finny lead the way past reception, Alastair adds, “Not even _Manchester_ can find any more rain for us, surely.” 

This gets Alastair a poke in the small of the back. He aims a back-heel kick at Jimmy, makes the other man stumble. Finny looks round with a quizzical expression. “That was my impression of you,” Jimmy tells him, and Finny sticks out his tongue in response.

Jimmy leans in closer to Alastair for a moment, as they walk behind the other two. “Looking good,” he murmurs.

“Then stop looking,” says Alastair.

“You first.”

Alastair’s fairly sure this isn’t an even slightly legitimate comment – there’s no way he’s been eyeing up Jimmy as much as the reverse – but there isn’t really time to debate it, so he mutters, “ _You_ looked pretty good draped all over Finny.”

“Misdirection,” says Jimmy.

Alastair barks a laugh, smothers it when Broady glances back at them. “Fair enough.”

At the exit, Jimmy moves to hold the door open for Alastair, then blocks his way through it. Alastair just barely checks his stride before he walks right into the other man. He presses his tongue against his teeth to stop himself from smiling too obviously.

“That it?” says Jimmy.

Alastair frowns a question at him.

“Not… worried?” says Jimmy. “About me flirting?”

Alastair huffs a laugh, and shakes his head.

Still Jimmy doesn’t move. “Why not?”

 _Because I’d bet the farm that Finny’s sleeping with Broady_ probably isn’t the sort of thing Alastair can say out loud right now. On balance. _To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it, and wouldn’t it be a bit hypocritical to get jealous, in our situation_? Unlikely to go down well.

So, option three: “Because I know where you’ll be, later.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows go up, and his lips quirk, like he’s torn between saying something and giving in to that helpless smile he gets when he knows he’s been outdone. Alastair promptly loses the fight against his own smile.

“Are you two coming, or what?”

Finny’s voice ringing out startles them both. He and Broady are halfway across the street, outside; Broady’s got his arms spread like he’s appealing for a wicket.

“Sensible,” says Alastair, in an undertone. “Mature and sensible.”

Jimmy clears his throat. “Right,” he says, stepping out of his way.

After some debate and a bit of wandering, Broady’s insistence wins out, and they flag down a black cab and head to Rusholme for a curry. While Broady and Jimmy, sitting together on the back seat, examine reviews on their phones to pick a place, Alastair makes a point of giving his full attention to his conversation with Finny, who’s sitting beside him on one of the backward-facing fold-down seats. Not for the first time, he thinks about how glad he is to have Finny back with them; there’s something so effortlessly beguiling about the man, all self-deprecating smile and laughing eyes and soft, thoughtful voice.

Alastair half-wonders what would happen if _he_ flirted with Finny. Might be interesting. See what Jimmy’s like when he’s a bit jealous.

But that would be mean, of course; and in any case, _sensible_ is the watchword, tonight. Alastair draws back his left leg – which has mysteriously edged a bit too close to Jimmy’s, opposite him – and catches Jimmy watching him again out of the corner of his eye. He can’t resist raising an arm to push his hand through his hair, in a lingering sort of way. Jimmy coughs, clears his throat, and looks back down at whatever Broady’s pointing to on his phone.

When they arrive, Broady and Finny pile out of the taxi first. Jimmy reaches over and uses Alastair’s knee to brace himself against – heavily – as he gets to his feet. He pauses, head ducked to stay clear of the cab ceiling, and says, quietly, tightening his grip just above Alastair’s knee, “If _I’ve_ got to be mature and sensible, so do you.”

“Or?”

Jimmy clears his throat, again. “ _Or_ …” His look turns considering. “Do you really want to play at frustration with me? Because you know I’ll win.”

Alastair takes a deep breath, and waits until Jimmy’s out on the pavement before he gets up from his seat. It seems like a better option than following too closely behind Jimmy, when the other man is bent almost double, trousers tight across his backside.

This, Alastair reflects, is going to be a challenging evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone reading this has probably already seen them, but just in case: the pics from Jimmy's _Attitude_ photoshoot [are here](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/129083870312/twistsofsilver-boundaryrider-here-you-go), and nsfw. You're welcome.
> 
> \--
> 
> I don't generally like to end a chapter in the middle of a scene, but this is all I've had chance to write so far, and it was already north of 5000 words, so I thought posting it was better than another week of silence.
> 
> Feel free to suggest possible topics of conversation for the rest of the awkward not-a-double-date dinner. :D


	5. Chapter 5

The whole thing is pretty silly, really. If you ask Jimmy. There’s nothing to worry about.

(He’s tried telling Ali this; has had no traction at all.)

There’s no way Broady knows something’s going on. Broady isn’t _quite_ as much of a big mouth as Swanny, but if Broady knew – if he even suspected – it’d be all over the dressing room within five minutes. And it isn’t, so: case closed.

Case _being_ closed, they surely don’t have to be _that_ careful. Sensible, yeah, but not _boring_.

Take, for example, what happens when Jimmy manoeuvres his thigh up against Ali’s. It’s a couple of minutes since they got to the restaurant and sat down, so it’s not like he’s _rushing_ , or anything. Plus, their legs are mostly under the table; it’s not like anyone can _see_ that their knees are touching. And those knees were only about an inch apart _anyway_ before he started. Given all that, why on earth does Ali almost immediately react by moving his leg away?

Baffling. Jimmy tries to catch the other man’s eye, without success. Realises, belatedly, that Broady’s saying his name.

“Hmm?” he says, pretending to be intent on his menu.

“I said, what do you feel like drinking?”

“Could share a bottle of wine,” says Jimmy, still without looking up, still mostly thinking about how his thigh and Ali’s aren’t touching anymore. “Red?”

As Broady leans back in his chair and tries to get a waiter’s attention, Jimmy feels a slight tug at his menu; Finny’s got a corner of it between his thumb and forefinger, and though his face is tilted down towards the table, he’s looking across at Jimmy from under raised eyebrows, and smiling gently. Jimmy notices for the first time that he’s got his own menu upside down.

Jimmy clears his throat and rotates his menu, as casually and subtly as he can, until he can actually read what’s on there. He manages it just in time, before Broady turns his attention back to the table.

“Joining us for wine, Cooky?”

Ali’s lips quirk. “I’m going to pretend you said something non-alcoholic, since there’s a match on.”

“Well, all right,” says Jimmy, “just half a glass for you, then. So you don’t end up under the table.”

Ali’s dark-eyed gaze flashes in his direction: half amused, half admonishing. “Oi.”

Broady smirks. “I’m sure Jimmy’d make sure you got to bed, if that happened.” His smirk takes on a somewhat fixed quality as he finishes the sentence, and he turns away to glare at Finny, but Jimmy doesn’t bother to wonder why because he’s too busy watching from the corner of his eye as Ali fails to hide his alarm at Broady’s words.

It’s only when Jimmy feels denim under his palm that he realises he’s reached out for the other man. (He didn’t, in the end, manage to find anything for Ali to wear other than jeans, but this pair’s at least distantly related to a style that’s been fashionable in the last five years. Baby steps.) It’s meant to be a calming touch, a soothing one, but his hand’s being pushed away from Ali’s thigh almost as soon as he’s registered the fact that he put it there. Rationally, he knows this is a sensible move – just because there’s nothing to worry about, it doesn’t mean there’s any call to be _creating_ something to worry about – but it doesn’t stop it stinging a bit, though.

When the waiter comes over, he tells them that the restaurant doesn’t have a license, so they’ll have to go and fetch some wine from the shop round the corner. When Broady announces that he’ll do the booze run, Ali jumps up and offers to go with him, almost like he’s glad to get away.

(That stings a bit, too.)

“How’s he doing?” says Finny, when the other two are out of the door, and out of sight down the road. “Cooky, I mean.”

Jimmy focuses on the other man with an effort: gleaming wave of chestnut-brown hair, wide forehead, ski-jump of a nose. He’s a little surprised to find that he almost _does_ want to talk to Finny, about this; but the story of how Ali’s doing isn’t his to tell. _When all else fails_ , he thinks, and goes for the shrug. Another waiter turns up with a jug of water, and Jimmy takes the distraction gratefully.

“Just, you know, wondered,” says Finny. “I haven’t seen him since Australia.”

Jimmy ignores the pause Finny leaves him, busying himself instead with the task of pouring the water without tumbling ice cubes making it splash all over everything. Hopes the other man will take the hint.

(Nope.)

“When I got here the other day, I, uh…” Finny hesitates, pushing a hand through his hair. “Well, I’m amazed he manages to be as chirpy as he is. With everything that’s going on.”

“Water,” mutters Jimmy, pushing a squat glass towards Finny in a last-ditch attempt to derail him.

Finny picks up the glass, but it hovers undrunk halfway to his mouth. “God knows I wouldn’t be,” he goes on. “I mean, he does look quite _tense_ , underneath it all…”

As Finny carries on talking, Jimmy sighs. Swanny wears you down by baiting his words with traps; Finny wears you down with his earnestness. Either way, eventually you have to give in, if only for the sake of a quiet life.

Jimmy shifts in his seat. “Probably not a summer he’s going to look back on with much fondness,” he says. “But I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

(He has the beginnings of an idea; something he wants to suggest to Ali, if and when the rain comes back in for the fourth and fifth days of the Test. He hasn’t worked out how to put it, yet.)

“Yeah, but this thing can be so intense; I got my own tiny little taste of it down under, and it messed _me_ up, properly.” Finny finally takes a drink of his water. His eyes, for a moment, have a distant look to them, and Jimmy – remembering Finny’s sad face in the nets, remembering Finny being sent home, remembering how hard Finny worked, to no avail – reaches over and gives his hand a quick squeeze.

He’s missed Finny, ungainly human giraffe with rubbish taste in music though he is; somehow the seam attack doesn’t feel quite right, without him.

Finny flashes him a smile, but doesn’t waver from the topic. “I mean, you know him best – is he getting chance to relax?”

This question sends Jimmy’s imagination to all the wrong places. He swallows a mouthful of water all wrong, and starts coughing. Finny reaches across to pat him heartily on the back.

“You could say that,” Jimmy manages at last, weakly.

“ _You_ all right?” says Finny, then. “You’ve been looking kind of pale this evening – well, you were until you started choking, anyway.”

“I’m always pale,” says Jimmy.

“Yeah, but more so.”

“Oh, _thanks_ , mate.” Maybe Jimmy hasn’t missed Finny, after all.

But he senses a way to divert him; and, actually, now the other man’s mentioned it, Jimmy thinks back over how often he’s cleared his throat this evening, without it ever seeming to work. His head feels heavy; heavy and fuzzy. Maybe he is slightly under the weather.

He takes another drink of water, and concentrates, this time, on how it feels when he swallows. He frowns. “Bit of a scratchy throat, yeah.”

“Need a good hot curry to burn it out of you, then,” says Finny, with a grin.

Jimmy eyes him, sceptically. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Course it is! Kill or cure.”

“Somehow I get the feeling you might not have my best interests at heart.”

“I _always_ have your best interests at heart. Just like you do mine.” Finny sits back, still grinning, stretching an arm out across the back of Broady’s empty chair. “Trust me.”

The restaurant door opens; Jimmy looks down at the table as Ali and Broady, sky blue plastic bag in hand, weave their way over to them. “Hmm,” he says.

“What are we _hmm_ ing for?” says Broady, as Finny pulls his chair back for him.

“Think Finny’s trying to nobble me so he can nick my place in the team for the next Test.”

“Scandalous,” says Broady, unscrewing the cap on the wine. A waiter brings over some glasses, without needing to be asked.

“Sounds to me,” says Ali, sliding into his own chair, “like you’re paranoid.”

 _Oh,_ I’m _the paranoid one_ , thinks Jimmy. _That’s why you just maintained a six-inch exclusion zone between us as you sat down._

“No-one ever believes me,” he mutters, but it comes out less surly than he intends, because Ali may be avoiding touching him, but he’s still smiling, and that’s as distracting as ever. Jimmy decides he needs a break from being sensible. “I’m off to the loo.”

He gives Ali what he hopes is a significant enough look, and leaves Broady pouring the wine.

\--

Alastair breathes a sigh of relief as Jimmy disappears. He’s starting to think this would’ve been easier if he’d come alone. He did quite a good job, he reckons, of dodging Broady’s deeply unsubtle questions while they were in the corner shop; then again, _Seen a lot of Jimmy, lately?_ was quite an easy one, on balance, given that he hasn’t seen much of him at all, actually, since they’ve been in Manchester. But it’s much easier to be blasé and/or economical with the truth when he isn’t sitting right beside Jimmy. When he can’t feel the colour creeping into his face just from the knowledge that Jimmy’s watching him.

Broady interrupts his train of thought, reaching across with the wine bottle. “Just half a glass for me,” says Alastair, quickly. Broady makes a face, but any comment he might have added is forestalled when Finny starts humming.

“For the last time,” says Broady, rounding on the other man, “you’re _not_ getting me to sit through a musical. It’s not happening.”

“Aw, but come on. _Wicked_. Everyone says it’s _great_.”

“Everyone _who_?”

Alastair feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. It’s a message from Jimmy, although _message_ might be too strong a word: it’s a single image, a small yellow cartoon face with a squiggly vertical line for a mouth and a small heart next to it, followed by a question mark. It takes Alastair a couple of glances and then – when he decides Finny and Broady are too wrapped up in their conversation to notice what he’s doing – a more prolonged squint to work out that the squiggly line is supposed to be lips, puckered up for a kiss.

 _Behave_ , he sends back, and gets in response a cartoon face that looks like it’s crying. He chooses to ignore this, picking up his glass of wine and taking a long gulp. Finny and Broady are still at it, and it’s the most playful ‘argument’ Alastair has ever seen, all grins and sparkling eyes. If he were a different sort of person – more like Broady, for example – he’d be throwing _Get a room_ right back at them. But he’s not, so he just watches them with a smile.

Another buzz from his phone.

_But I’m all lonely in here by myself_

Alastair rolls his eyes. He’d text back an eyerolling cartoon face, if he knew how. Instead he opts for: _thats what you get for loitering in the loos_

He has a couple of tries at loitering before turning on autocorrect, just long enough to get it right. (He doesn’t trust autocorrect enough to leave it on permanently, after a few howlers in his early days with a mobile.)

Jimmy’s not done.

_Not even one smooch?_

_nope_ , Alastair sends back, but he can feel his breath coming a little faster. Jimmy’s not normally this direct in his messages, and there’s something irresistible about it: flirting in plain sight and under the radar.

_You’re a hard-hearted man_

Alastair suppresses a snort at this; glances up to check his reaction hasn’t been heard, before turning his attention back to his phone. He bites his lip for a moment, picking over possible comebacks, then writes, _so much so im going to resist cracking a joke about other hard things_

A long pause.

_You basically just did_

Alastair goes back to coy: _if you want to read it that way thats up to you and your dirty mind_. Jimmy isn’t the only one who can tease.

_Brat. Wish you were in here right now, I’d give you a piece of my dirty mind_

Heat pools, abruptly, in Alastair’s groin. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose; curls his fingers tight around his phone and shuffles his feet under the table to get himself under control. Time to wave the white flag, he decides, and sends one last message: _ok enough come back to the table im hungry and want to order!!_

_I can’t tell if that’s innuendo or not_

This time, he does laugh.

“Who’re you texting with such gusto?”

Alastair almost drops his phone. He looks up to find both Finny and Broady peering at him. “Just a teammate who needs to grow up,” he says, with feeling, reaching for his wine glass, and draining it.

Broady immediately makes to pour Alastair more wine, but Alastair clamps his hand over the top of the glass, and Finny slips the bottle from Broady’s grasp and moves it to his own side of the table.

“Let me guess,” Finny says, “Joe?”

“Got it in one,” says Alastair, with a smile that he hopes looks less like sheer relief than it feels.

“What’s this about Joe?” says Jimmy’s voice, from behind him, and Broady smirks.

“Apparently he can’t stop texting Cooky.”

Jimmy leans on the back of Alastair’s chair as he pulls out his own. He clears his throat. “Is that so?”

Alastair just about manages not to react when he feels a sharp prod just beneath his shoulderblade, or when Jimmy – as he sits, heavily – shoots him a raised-eyebrow glance.

“Yeah,” says Alastair, deciding he needs to get them off this topic before anyone asks what Joe’s supposedly been saying. “Shall we order?”

Jimmy’s leg is back against his own, and it’s like the heat from it is going straight to Alastair’s belly, and his face. When the other man shuffles his chair further under the table, a hand ends up straying onto Alastair’s knee again. Alastair makes to push it away once more, and feels Jimmy’s fingers curl around his own, just for a moment, and squeeze, gently. Just for a moment, but Alastair’s breath hitches, and he has to fight a sudden overwhelming urge to laugh, because _this_. This whole thing.

He lets their legs go on touching. Just for a few minutes. He’ll move, soon.

 _It must be nice_ , he thinks, _to have willpower._

\--

They’re not the best dinner company, Jimmy decides, tonight. He’s clearing his throat every two minutes – enough to annoy himself, so goodness know what everyone else thinks – and Ali’s getting quieter by the minute.

Oh, he’s smiling, all right; but it’s that diminished smile again, the withdrawn one that says he’s saving his energy for something internal, and can’t spare much for talking.

(At least he hasn’t moved his leg, this time.)

Their curries have only been in front of them a few minutes when Ali shoves his chair back, muttering something about the bathroom. Jimmy pushes his tikka around his plate for a while, distractedly (he doesn’t have much appetite, this evening), then gets up to follow. As he does, he intercepts a glance between the other two men that might be knowing, or it might not, but just now he finds he doesn’t care either way.

When he pushes through the bathroom door, he finds Ali standing at one of the narrow sinks, hands braced on the porcelain, head down.

“Not now,” he says, without looking up.

“I just came to check you’re okay,” says Jimmy.

Ali lifts his head, now; meets Jimmy’s gaze in the mirror. His smile’s rueful. “Be better when we’re back at the hotel and… you know.” Jimmy takes a step towards him, and Ali says, quickly, “No, no, no. Stop _right_ where you are.”

Jimmy freezes. “I…”

“Sorry, just…” Ali turns, spreads his hands. “Look, I know I started it, but, honestly. I surrender. No more.” Scarlet picks out his cheekbones; his smile has turned abashed. “You know how we talked about some nights being good for teasing in public, and others not? Well, I think this is one of the _not_ s. The texts were fun, really fun, but no more of the stuff at the table, okay?”

“But I was only—”

“Seriously. No teasing until we’re back at the hotel. No hands on my knee, no… wandering legs, none of it. Because if we start” –Ali shakes his head, and gives a short laugh that sounds halfway to undone— “I’m not going to want to stop, and then we really _will_ be in a mess.”

Three strides, and he’s through the door, and gone.

“But it wasn’t teasing,” says Jimmy, to the empty air the other man’s left behind. “It’s just… touching.”

(But they don’t really do _just touching_ , do they?)

Jimmy promises himself, then: he’ll get Ali away from Old Trafford, when the rain comes back. No more sitting around in the dressing room, letting the tension ratchet up.

He examines himself in the mirror, straightening his hair. Finny was right. He _does_ look pale.

\--

By the time they get back to the hotel, an hour or so later, Jimmy’s feeling thoroughly grotty, and apparently looks it, too, to judge from the fact that all three of the others have teased him about it at least once on the way. He heads straight for his room, and Ali insists on coming up with him, even when Broady makes a crack about how he knew _one_ of them would be helping the other to bed.

“Yeah,” says Ali, in a voice bathed in waspish sarcasm (while Finny elbows Broady), “because clearly I’m planning to ravish him when he’s in this state.”

Even Broady’s speechless at that one. Finny laughs and laughs.

“What…?” says Jimmy, as they make it to the lift.

Ali’s facing away, pushing the button for their floor. “Like you said, misdirection. Thought if I make a joke out of it… Okay, mostly I was just irritated with him.” He turns back and watches Jimmy, head tilted to one side, as the lift doors close on them. “I take it ravishing’s not really on the agenda tonight.”

Jimmy closes his eyes, grateful he hasn’t had to broach this himself. “Don’t think so. Tomorrow, definitely, but not tonight. Sorry. I just feel wiped out. Don’t know why, it’s not like I’ve done much today.”

He’s expecting a joke about what they _have_ been doing, today; he’s left it open for that, deliberately, wanting to lighten the tone. But it doesn’t come.

“This—” he hears Ali say, then stop.

Jimmy waits, but there’s nothing more. “What?”

“This isn’t some sort of… payback, because I turned you down earlier, is it?”

“No.” Jimmy opens his eyes to see Ali trying and failing to hide his uncertainty: a frown trapping his mouth, tension around his eyes. “ _No_. Promise,” he says, flatly. “There’s patience, and then there’s… Look, I’ve been waiting for this for a week. Believe me when I say… I’m stupid in many ways, but not _that_ stupid.”

Ali huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “Timing, eh?” Then he looks up, eyes wide. “This is _my_ fault, isn’t it? Oh, _god_ … I kept you out in the rain, and now you have _flu_ , and you’ll probably need to _bowl_ tomorrow—”

“Nothing to do with today,” Jimmy says, and the sharpness in his own voice surprises him, though not half as much as what he does next. He covers the distance between them in two steps; pulls Ali against him and wraps his arms around him. “Flu takes longer than that.”

(He’s not going to explain how he knows: he has letters at home, from his daughters’ playgroup, explaining various ailments and how many days or weeks it takes for symptoms to show.)

Ali is rigid against him. “Isn’t there, like… a security camera in here, or something?”

It takes Jimmy a moment to catch up; to realise properly what he’s doing, and where he’s doing it. “Hugging’s fine,” he mutters. “Teammates can hug.”

 _Joe does it all the time, after all_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.

After a moment, Jimmy feels the other man shift against him, one arm sliding tentatively around his back, head tilting until his face is buried against Jimmy’s shoulder. “You _must_ be ill,” he says, voice slightly muffled.

“Hmm?”

“World’s grumpiest man, giving me a hug?” Ali shifts again, and a warm hand presses briefly to Jimmy’s forehead. “Yep. Definitely ill.”

“Don’t worry,” says Jimmy, extricating himself as the lift slows, giving the other man a weary smile. “Won’t happen again.”

The lift pings, and Ali takes a couple of steps towards the opening doors. “Hope not,” he says, absently.

Neither of them says anything, then, until they reach Ali’s door, where Jimmy hesitates.

“Night,” says Ali, as he fumbles to get his key in the lock. “Get some sleep. Want you back to full strength for tomorrow.”

And Jimmy doesn’t ask whether he means for the match, or for the other thing.

\--

**Alastair**  
_you are being missed at breakfast_

**Jimmy**  
_Feel like death warmed up :(_

**Alastair**  
_this is just a ploy to try to get out of batting isnt it_

**Jimmy**  
_Got to be some perks to sleeping with the captain_

**Alastair**  
_yes me_  
_im the perk_

**Jimmy**  
_I suppose you might have a valid point_  
_ps still feeling rotten_

**Alastair**  
_want me to bring you something ?_

**Jimmy**  
_I’m out of teabags_

**Alastair**  
_no food?_

**Jimmy**  
_Not hungry_

**Alastair**  
_it must be serious on my way_

\--

Before he knocks on Jimmy’s door, Alastair looks up and down the grey corridor a couple of times, and swallows hard: remembering, without wanting to, Jimmy holding him in the lift last night, and the strength of his urge to give the other man a goodnight kiss, by his own door, out in the open.

He knocks, and he waits, and he thinks about keeping things simple.

When Jimmy opens the door, his pallor is even worse than it was last night: washed out skin contrasts sharply with dark eyebrows and stubble, his eyes are rimmed with red, and his hair is all over the place. He’s dressed in loose grey trousers with a drawstring waist, and a baggy, long-sleeved navy t-shirt; the combined effect of slender wrists and ankles poking out of such unusually generous expanses of fabric is to make him look skinnier than normal. Even his shoulders look reduced, somehow, by hunched stance and draped clothing.

Alastair tries to keep his concern from showing too obviously; suspects he fails. Hastily, he holds out his burdens: a handful of teabags and a pastry wrapped in a few napkins. “Here you go.”

Jimmy steps aside, jerks his head backwards.

Alastair makes a quick negating gesture. “Oh, I don’t want to… I’m not here to disturb you—”

“Have a brew with me.”

A few weeks ago, Alastair wouldn’t have hesitated. Now, he does; not quite trusting himself to stay, suspicious of his motives for wanting to.

(Confused, too: what does Jimmy want him in here _for_ , when he clearly isn’t well enough to get up to anything?)

“Come on,” says Jimmy, gruffly. “You’ve probably already caught my cold by now, anyway.” 

And Alastair can’t explain, can he, that this isn’t what he’s afraid of? So he slips through the open door, and lets Jimmy close – and lock – it behind him.

He hands over the napkin bundle. “Pain au chocolat,” he says, in response to Jimmy’s puzzlement. “In case, you know, your appetite picks up.”

Alastair can’t quite find the right word for Jimmy’s expression as he unwinds the flimsy white napkins from around the pastry – eager, amused, a bit bashful, eyes brighter than they were a moment ago – but it’s all too familiar. A memory of Jimmy unwrapping the cufflinks in Southampton shoves its way to the front of Alastair’s mind.

“Go on,” he says, turning away, “go back to bed. I’ll sort out the tea.”

He fills the kettle – as so often in hotels, it’s a tiny thing, practically toy-sized – from the bathroom sink, plugs it in, and empties his pockets of sugar sachets and little plastic milk containers.

“Two sugars,” says Jimmy, in a mumble, from the bed, “and—”

“We’ve known each other for eight years,” Alastair says, looking up and flashing him a quick smile in spite of himself. “Think I don’t know how you like your tea?”

The other man just grunts.

It helps to have the tea to concentrate on. Routine: teabag, sugar, milk; pouring, squeezing, stirring, extracting. And the tea’s a good excuse not to look at the other man as he’s approaching the dishevelled bed: he needs to watch the mugs, make sure he’s not spilling anything. Needs to watch his footing, too; Jimmy’s room is, as usual, a mess, the carpet strewn with things to make an unwary tea-bearer trip.

He puts his own mug down on the sleek, slate-grey bedside cabinet, then turns to pass the other to Jimmy. This is when he notices two things: first, that the sheets next to Jimmy are turned down, exposing an area of mattress like an invitation; second, that only some screwed-up napkins and a few flakes of pastry remain of the pain au chocolat.

He decides to focus on the second thing; it’s safer, and satisfying. “Appetite back, then?” he says, as Jimmy takes the mug from him.

“Turns out my chocolate stomach’s working better than I thought,” says Jimmy, and the simple delight in his smile is utterly disarming. He transfers the mug to one hand, and pulls back the covers further. “Joining me?”

“I shouldn’t…”

Jimmy takes a cautious sip of his tea, then sits back against what looks like a small fortress of pillows, half-closing his eyes. “Still early, come on.”

“You need to be recuperating, not getting distracted.”

Jimmy scoffs. “I’m only asking you to get into bed, not go ten rounds with me.”

That’s not, in and of itself, reassuring, but Alastair’s willpower isn’t up to the fight. It’s not that he can’t say _no_ to that considering gaze or the boyish grin; it’s that he doesn’t want to. He pulls off his trainers and socks, sits down on the mattress.

Jimmy eyes him. “You’re keeping your tracksuit on?” he says. “Really?”

Alastair debates with himself for a moment, then drags his t-shirt over his head and slips his trousers off. Leaves his pants on, though. He pushes his legs under the covers, then wriggles backwards until he’s up against the headboard, before he responds to Jimmy’s raised eyebrow: “Don’t want you getting over-excited in your weakened state.”

That gets him a chuckle, making the silence that follows – as they sit, side by side, drinking their tea and gazing off into space – feel easier than it might have done; companionable.

“Not ideal,” Jimmy says at last. “In the middle of a Test. Me being ill, I mean. Sorry.”

Alastair turns his mug carefully in his hands, soaking heat into the pads of his fingers. “Not ideal, no – but not your fault.”

Jimmy spends a few moments gathering up stray flakes of pastry before he speaks again. “I’m sure I used to deal with stuff like this better.”

Alastair snorts, running through a mental slideshow of previous occasions of Jimmy With Manflu, which mostly seem to involve Jimmy wrapped in blankets and whinging at Swanny. “No, you didn’t. Known you for eight years, remember. You’re _always_ miserable when you’ve been struck down by the lurgy.”

“It’s just…” Jimmy waves a hand, vaguely, “frustrating. Makes me feel old.”

Alastair looks at him. “What, because only old people get colds?”

“No, but… I’ve only got a limited number of Tests left in me.” Jimmy leans away, briefly, puts his empty mug down on the cabinet on his side of the bed. “And something like this brings it home. I hate being… not fully _there_ , you know?”

“Nothing you can do except rest up.” Alastair pats the other man’s thigh through the sheets. “Broady and the others can pick up the bowling slack.”

Jimmy slumps, sliding down within his pillows, drawing his knees up to his chest. “I’m meant to be leading the attack. I _like_ leading the attack. Always have done.”

“Okay, and that’s great. But none of this makes you _old_.”

“What would you know about it?” Jimmy mutters. “ _You’re_ still in your twenties. I remember my twenties.” He puts on a quavery voice. “Them were the days. Whole life ahead of me.”

Alastair laughs, and after a moment so does Jimmy.

“Idiot,” says Alastair. His hand has found its way back to the sheet-covered shape of the other man’s thigh, and he lets his thumb stroke the soft cotton. “Going to start calling you Old Father Time, or cradle-snatcher, or something.”

“Methuselah.”

“What?”

“Bible guy. Really old. Like, nine hundred years old. Wait, why am I helping you find ways to mock me?”

Alastair’s smiling now; can’t stop. “Because you’re feverish and you’re babbling, poor thing.”

“That’s right. I _am_ ill.” An arm slides behind Alastair’s back; a hand takes up station on his hip. Jimmy has more colour in his cheeks than he did when he opened the door, but he still looks tired. “Only one thing for it,” he says. “You’re going to have to try kissing me better.”

Alastair gives him the eyeroll he wanted to send by text last night. “You’ve tried that line before.”

Jimmy’s leaning in, now. “Did it work?”

“Almost,” Alastair says, when Jimmy’s lips are an inch from his, and watches Jimmy’s face fall. “But how could I refuse a sick man?”

“See, things are looking up already,” says Jimmy, and then there’s a soft, slow meeting of mouths: kiss as weary caress, kiss as comfort. At some point the arm at Alastair’s back is joined by one around his waist.

The kiss fades out, mostly on Jimmy’s part; “I’m too fuzzy-headed even to do this properly,” he says, and he sounds so fed up that Alastair curls an arm around his shoulders and kisses his forehead by way of consolation. Jimmy’s shirt is damp with sweat, but he feels cool to the touch, and Alastair pulls the covers up around him, keeping one arm around his shoulders.

Jimmy sinks into him, bit by bit, until his head is nestled against Alastair’s chest. “Ravishing tonight,” he mumbles, shuffling in closer, arms tightening around Alastair. “Tonight or tomorrow; promise.” He says something else, after that, but Alastair can’t make it out – and, at length, the other man’s breathing settles into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

“Guess I’ve got you, this time,” says Alastair, in a whisper. And then there he sits: holding the other man carefully, head tilted back to gaze up at the ceiling, willing time to slow, just a little.

\--

In the event, Broady doesn’t take up the bowling slack.

In the event, a ball deflects through a helmet grille, blood spatters down onto the wicket from a broken nose, and a shaken Stu is whisked away to hospital. These things put Jimmy’s cold into perspective; they propel him out to bat in grim, determined silence (the least he can do, under the circumstances, is rein in his usual grumbling) and then, in the fullness of time, to lead the bowling attack.

(These things, plus something else.)

In the event, four wickets for Mo, two for CJ, two for Jimmy, one for Woakesy, plus a runout – or, depending on your perspective, an Indian batting collapse – see the match off before the close of play, and the torrential rain forecast for the next two days.

In the event, Jimmy gets no chance to follow through on his promises – whether the one about ravishing, or the one he made only to himself, a promise that if the rain kept them off the pitch for the next two days, he’d take Ali away from here, out for a drive. (To show him Lancashire: the hills, the moors, maybe even the coast; find him some sheep in a field or something, if need be, for the sake of keeping his mind off the match.)

In the event, Jimmy’s rushing out of the door, again, hurried on this time by a text from his wife, who’s double-parked outside the ground, waiting to take him back to the hotel and then home, for a few days of chicken soup and pampering. The door he’s rushing out of is the dressing room, this time, not a hotel room, but the effect’s much the same: no chance to prepare, no chance to assess, no chance for a proper goodbye. Mostly he still believes it’s for the best (thinking too hard about this is unlikely to do either of them much good), but something tugs at him, this time, more than usual. On an impulse, he catches Ali’s eye as he slips out of the door; hopes it’ll be enough.

In the event, it is: Ali catches him twenty feet down the corridor, drags him out of sight without a word, kisses him long and hard.

(Later – tomorrow morning – Jimmy will wake up with a clearer head, and such gnawing guilt about keeping his wife waiting for the sake of this that it’ll be hours before he can bring himself to talk to anyone. But here, and now, it seems utterly necessary.)

“That’s a thank you,” Ali says, after: breathless, lips swollen, forehead pressed against Jimmy’s. “For battling through, today. You were amazing. And now I’d better let you go.”

But Jimmy returns the favour with another kiss; his own thank you, for the tea and the company, this morning. “I’m glad…” he says, then runs out of words. He strokes the line of Ali’s jaw, kisses the corner of his mouth, and tries again. “Didn’t want to leave it like… like we did last time. Let’s pick up from here, in London, yeah?”

“Deal,” says Ali. “You promised me ravishing, after all.” He hesitates, then murmurs, “And the cufflinks… forgiven?”

“Nothing to forgive,” says Jimmy, firmly. He watches the other man’s closed eyes, the thick lashes restless against tanned skin. He wants to make amends for that morning, doesn’t know how; not without letting slip his brief, sharp moment of conflict. He settles on a compromise option, although later he’ll wish he hadn’t: “What did… what did you do? With them?”

Ali brushes Jimmy’s lips with his, draws him into another kiss. “Gave them away,” he says, at last. “Local church, fundraising for a new roof. I gave them away.”

“Right,” Jimmy says, thinking and not thinking of his wife, waiting for him outside. “Good. Good cause.”

In the event, there is – of course – time for one last, snatched kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links:
> 
> Details of the match, including coverage of Broady's injury and references to Jimmy playing while ill, are [here at Cricinfo](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/engine/match/667717.html); you can see in the photos from the final day that Jimmy doesn't look at all well. sirlampsy211 gleefully pointed out to me, after I published chapter 3, that Alastair commented in a post-match interview that Jimmy's illness was the result of having spent too much time in the rain the day before... :D
> 
> For a fic perspective on Finny's torrid time in Australia on the 2013-14 tour, see my Brinn story, '[An Hour Behind the Summer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3351530)'. Finny's love of musicals is attested by his own twitter feed (and his teammates' snark): [see here](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/132267642682/sawker-bibliolicious-kutubiyya-finny-the).
> 
> For some photos of the hotel I decided to put them in, see Trip Advisor [here](http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Hotel_Review-g187069-d305729-Reviews-Radisson_Blu_Edwardian_Manchester-Manchester_Greater_Manchester_England.html#photos). There was going to be more about this - I even worked out what you could see from each of their windows - but in the end there wasn't really space for it.
> 
> \--
> 
> That's it for 'An Indian Summer', for the time being; I'll be back with the fifth and final part in due course. In the meantime, thanks again for all your comments and kudos and tumblr DMs <3


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